


Harry Potter and the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by VeeTheRee



Series: Harry Potter and the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: <- that's drarry, <- that's johnlock, 80s johnlock, 80s music Queen and David Bowie BECAUSE THESE DESERVE SOME MORE LOVE!, :)), Adultlock, BAMF Greg Lestrade, BAMF Hermione Granger, BAMF John Watson, Character Develpoment, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings, Draco has a lot to work through, Drarry - Freeform, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Everyone is BAMF, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Greg ships it, Hermione ships it, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Era, Hogwarts Triwizard Champion is a Slytherin, Horcrux Hunting, Horcruxes, Hurt/Comfort, Jim Moriarty is Gryffindor (you'll see why), Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Kidlock, Like, M/M, Magnussen will be worse than Umbridge, Minor Character Death, Muggle Culture, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mystery, POV Blake Selcout, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, POV John Watson, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pls dont copy elswhere, Potterlock, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Redeeming Slytherins and the Houses, Redemption Arcs, Retrospective telling through flashbacks, Revenge, Sherlock and McGonagall have a love-hate student-teacher relationship cuz he's a smartass, Slow Burn Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Tags to be added perhaps, Teenlock, Triwizard Tournament, Wait for it, Years at Hogwarts, lol, oh the angst, so does Harry, super gay, their respective ships ofc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 84,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22805701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeeTheRee/pseuds/VeeTheRee
Summary: After their sixth year, the Golden Trio is facing the biggest challenge of their lives - destroying the horcruxes. But it doesn't have to be as painstaking when you've got help. And not just some ordinary help, but Sherlock Holmes and his companion John Watson as well.However, they have to dive into their past, see what events led them to stand here in the present, dangerous times. Only that may reveal even bigger threats lying underneath the already too calm surface of approaching death and foes ready to strike at any moment.Oh, and this is also the story of how johnlock (in 1980s) and drarry (in 1990s) came to life, despite the circumstances.
Relationships: And some more - Relationship, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Harry Potter and the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639501
Comments: 40
Kudos: 69





	1. The Game Is On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovelybluepanda](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lovelybluepanda), [bee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bee/gifts), [dee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dee/gifts), [readers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/readers/gifts).



> A couple of admin notes for our sake, and mine esp:  
> \- this fic is existing for a deal I made with my BFF, and I'm never backing away from that  
> \- updates will probably be monthly, once I write a chapter it's just.... long....er every time :)  
> \- English is not my first language and I'm no Brit, so feel free to nitpick me <3 I welcome it, I can always learn something new or correct myself in case I missed something before posting  
> \- please PLEASE give me feedback! There is no comment I could get angry about as long as it is constructive criticism  
> \- I love these fandoms and want to do them justice  
> \- i hope you all enjoy your time here, glitter and be gay, everyone~  
> \- oh and the end note is old, this is an update from 13.4.2020, hello past and future me!  
> \- also, first chapters are not really beta'd because I had school back then when I posted, and therefore not that focused while reviewing, apologies for the mistakes!  
> \- EDIT from 25.10. - there has been of a maintenance plotting done, and the timelines have been cleared up a little. Basically, since chapter 9, we are fully in retrospective flashback territory, meaning that one chapter will be of John and Sherlock, another with Harry and Draco until we end their Hogwrats years and then we dive into their 'present' that is happening in chapter 1 :)  
> \- I updated the summary above  
> \- the early chapters will probably get reviewed by me during Christmas, just so they are properly polished  
> \- I will probably draw tiny doodles of potterlock and drarry on my tumblr with each milestone this fic hits, starting from the 1.6k hits we reached 2 days ago, hehe - it's [majesticnerdyvee](https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/) in case you're interested :3  
> \- AND THANK YOU FOR GIVING THIS FIC A GO! I promise it will come together nicely <3
> 
> Cheers!  
> -Vee

Mist descended upon the misery-filled London. It was August and yet it seemed as though happiness left the city forever, if not the whole world. Regular people went on about their daily lives as usual, maybe a bit more irritable if anything. After all, this was Britain, they can be as grumpy about the weather as they deem important. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione huddled along the streets, the two boys blindly following Hermione wherever she was dragging them. They were protected by the Invisibility Cloak’s magic, which allowed the trio for a safer travelling now that Lord Voldemort had fully seized power definitely. 

“And where exactly are we going?” inquired Ron, skipping a step so he wouldn’t step on Harry’s foot. 

“Someone who can help us,” said Hermione. That still didn’t answer Ron’s question, but his frowning went unnoticed. 

Hermione’s bushy hair was tied in a bouncy bun that wiggled like jelly when she moved her head from side to side, inspecting road signs and muggle buildings. 

“I’ve never been this deep into London,” said Harry. Hermione didn’t pay attention to either of them for a good minute before absentmindedly asking Harry to repeat himself. “Forget it. Er, do you know where you’re leading us, Hermione?”

“Yes,” she said, brows furrowing. They came to a halt near a crosswalk. “It must be here somewhere,” muttered Hermione and led the way to the other side of the street once the green light flashed and cars stopped to wait their turn. 

“I hate when she does that,” Ron complained into Harry’s ear, who grinned. Her tendency to be quiet about her plans could be maddening at times.

“There!” she gasped suddenly and pointed at something in front of them, startling both boys.

“Where?”

“Right there!”

Harry and Ron squinted, but didn’t know what to look for, so all that remained was to follow Hermione to a front of black wooden doors with the inscription 221b Baker Street in golden letters that levelled with their eyes. 

“Hermione,” said Harry and grabbed his friend by the arm. “Are you sure this is safe?”

The witch rolled her eyes and said, “Of course. We just have to get in quietly.” She turned to the black door and tiptoed closer, taking out her wand. Before she chanted any spell, however, she tried to open it normally. Unlocked. Hermione looked at Harry and Ron and nodded. They waited until a pair of muggles strolled along and went it. 

The three stepped inside a hall split in half by a staircase on the left that lead upstairs. The hall continued farther back into an empty kitchen. Harry took off the Cloak and pocketed it. It looked like an ordinary muggle house to him, nothing special popped up about the place. 

Hermione peered into the kitchen but returned quickly, glancing nervously upstairs. “Hello?” she called out, but no answer came. She walked up a few steps before Ron stopped her. 

“Can you finally tell us what we’re doing here? In an empty muggle house?”

“This isn’t a muggle house, Ron,” she said and leaned onto the railing carefully. “It’s hard to explain, I don’t know much about them, I only heard about them from Lupin, and he said they’re trustworthy.”

“Who’s ‘they’? Hermione?”

She didn’t wait around much longer and rushed up the stairs, Harry and Ron right behind her. She opened the door directly opposite of the staircase and they found themselves in another messy kitchen. Banks and glasses were placed everywhere, as if someone left an experiment unfinished – or maybe it ended badly. Newspapers lay scattered on the ground, green and red splotches of unknown substances covered cabinets above the kitchen counters and the stove. The fridge was the only thing left unharmed as it seemed. 

“Ew, what is that?” Ron pointed to a dripping liquid on the table that hissed when it fell on floor tiles. 

“Don’t touch anything,” said Hermione nervously. “Look, there’s the living room, let’s wait there. They are probably out right now.”

“Couldn’t figure,” murmured Ron as Harry passed him to follow Hermione. 

The living room was spacious, sort of clean, with an air of antiquity to it. Two armchairs were seated near the put-out fireplace, one short and black, the other bigger and way more comfortable-looking, small pillows placed in it, one with the British flag imprinted on it. To their left was a couch, and they unanimously decided to sit there together obediently as though they were children who misbehaved. 

Harry’s gaze wondered about; his eyes settled on a skull resting on the rim of the fireplace, its empty sockets impaling a point in the distant corner of the room. A car honked somewhere in the streets and a clock ticked away slowly, bidding its time. 

They waited in silence and then, when Hermione couldn’t stand it any longer, she paced up and down the room, arms crossed. She stopped every few minutes to glance at a book cover that sat on a table in between two slim windows facing Baker Street. The suspense kept building up until Harry was sure it would soon burst and send Hermione or Ron on a rant. To be honest, he’d welcome anything, he didn’t want to think of the past few days’ events. 

Ron straightened himself as if ready to tell Hermione to sit back down, but two male voices bickering prevented him from doing so. The front door slammed shut. They all froze.

“Well, maybe if someone didn’t use all the milk in his godforsaken experiment we wouldn’t have to go and buy it!” said an angry soft voice. A groan followed with the sound of steps hurrying upstairs to the flat. 

“No, I certainly wouldn’t have to go buy it if it weren’t for your low threshold for tolerating my antics,” replied a deeper, cold voice. 

“Really now!”

The two men came into the kitchen like the teenagers did a while ago, still arguing. They heard plastic bags shuffle as one of the men slammed the groceries onto the table there, using it as a way of letting the steam out. 

“Listen up, Mr. Know-It-All,” said the first voice in a bitter tone. “I just want to know one thing – why don’t you even bother throwing away the empty boxes? It just stinks up the whole fridge, it’s dreadful!”

“Because I find shopping dreadful,” said the other man matter-of-factly. 

“Wow, alright, what d’you expect, that the boxes will magically fill up by themselves?”

“They could as well!”

A whimper echoed throughout the kitchen and into the living room. Suddenly, a man appeared in the doorframe, stopping dead in his tracks, a hand mid-motion in his blond hair. He stared at the kids, who stared right back. The other man continued a grumpy monologue, probably unpacking the groceries, not realising the stunned silence. 

“Uhm, Sherlock?” said the blond, looking Hermione, Ron, and Harry over. None of them made a sound, it was too awkward.

“Yes, John?” the man named Sherlock peered into the living room. His eyes widened in excitement upon seeing the three strangers in their flat. 

“Clients,” muttered John and he turned the switch, lighting up the gloomy room in a split second. 

“Obviously,” said Sherlock and he greeted the unexpected guests politely. 

“I’m sorry if we’re interrupting,” said Hermione hastily. “We… we just aren’t sure of what to do next, and a friend of ours recommended you….”

“Interrupting?” laughed the blond, brow raised. He pointed to his companion, now seated in the black armchairs, his eyes fixed momentarily on each of the kids. “Believe me, you’re an early Christmas present for Sherlock.”

“Yes, John, that will do,” said Sherlock flatly, chin resting on the tips of his long fingers. “I believe we should introduce ourselves first properly. I’m Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective,” – the other man shrugged helplessly when the trio shot him a confused look – “and this is John Watson.”

“A doctor, in case you ever have a flu,” John said and he also sat down in his armchair, throwing the pillows on the floor carelessly. 

“We’re –”

Hermione was cut off by Sherlock. “Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, and Ron Weasley. The scar’s impeccable, and though news spread fast that you are now in hiding,” John’s eyes widened when he realised that their clients were indeed the famous Hogwarts trio, “the Dark Lord controls the ministry and hopes to find you, and kill you. A bit repetitive, if you ask me.”

Quiet. Harry and his friends were at loss for words for a few seconds, the way Sherlock casually talked about the matter was both unnerving and a little welcome. A lot of people were frightened, and rightfully so, but the detective merely shrugged at the facts. 

“I mean, you’re right,” said Harry at last. He looked anxiously around the room, as did Hermione and Ron. “But is this a secure place to discuss things here?”

A pair of silvery eyes twinkled at the mention of that. “Cautious, very good,” said Sherlock, but his voice was rather flat. He motioned his hand lazily at the windows, the curtains covered them hastily, and he said, “My brother,” – he rolled his eyes – “took care of that a long time ago. It’s safe to negotiate our cooperation here. He’s a competent wizard, I put all my confidence into his powers, though grudgingly.”

“Funny, last time I checked caring was not an advantage,” smirked John, stretching out his legs. Sherlock ignored him, his eyes on Hermione, who avoided his gaze.

“No one can intercept us or eavesdrop, or Apparate on Baker Street. You can take my word for it. Now,” he shifted in his seat and put his left leg over his right, “do tell us why you’ve come here for exactly. Don’t leave any details out, be as thorough as possible. We’re not in a hurry, are we, John?”

John jerked at the mention of his name, he was lost in thought staring at the kids opposite of them. “What? Oh, yeah, of course.”

A few seconds of silence filled the room before Harry spoke. 

“We’re here for horcruxes, Mr. Holmes. Voldemort used dark magic to create them to make sure he becomes immortal. Professor Dumbledore and I put the pieces together shortly before… Well, Professor Lupin managed to contact us and direct us to you. Technically Hermione did, but you get the gist of it.” 

Unease hung above their heads. John and Ron both looked at the ground, while Hermione and Harry exchanged glances. Sherlock shut his eyes closed, not moving even slightly. John inquired about the horcruxes, and Harry tried to answer as much as he could.

“So will you help us?” he asked hopefully. John looked at Sherlock.

“How many?” said Sherlock.

“Seven, but we’ve already found one.”

“I assume it’s dangerous?”

“A little.”

No answer. Sherlock and Harry locked eyes, green and silver. 

“We’re in.”


	2. Many a New Acquaintance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, as promised, this chapter is muuuuch longer than I thought it would be - hope you like it! And thank ou for the kudos :)

"Wait, really?" said Ron, awestruck that they were actually met with a positive response. 

Sherlock blinked three times and forced himself to answer yet again, and politely, that yes, they are, obviously. John's squinting and inconspicuous cracking of his knuckles helped a little, too. They went over this before, just repeat the mantra. 

"Of course we'll help," said Sherlock, looking away from John to the curious teens. "After all, this war on muggles and muggle-borns has always been awfully ridiculous - only I wish it could be just as easily magicked away as it is being promoted."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Holmes!" Hermione said, her eyes glassy. 

"Oh please, it's Sherlock," the detective said with the slightest hint of smirk. "And this one is John. Let's get over the formalities." 

He noticed how Ron hugged her around the shoulders to console her. The last few days were extremely stressful for everyone, especially her, it seemed that she was in charge for the most part: preparations, plans, precautions… Definitely the most responsible one, Lupin knew who to contact. Also it wouldn't be the wisest decision to come out of the blue and send messages that could be intercepted to Harry Potter across the Great Britain, but still. 

"You said you found one… Do you have it here?" 

Harry reached into his pocket and took out a small locket. He handed it to Sherlock, who examined it with great interest. 

"Fake."

"Like my Aunt Debbie's cooking skills, yeah," Ron suddenly blurted out, at which he promptly shut up, but earned a chuckle from John. Sherlock ignored them both and turned it over in his fingers a while longer, then handed it back to Harry. 

"We're working on locating the real Locket," said Harry, moving his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "We've got house elves helping us at the moment, they helped us out before." 

"Yes, hopefully they don't take too long."

"I suppose…." 

"Contact us as soon as you make out the missing puzzle piece," Sherlock continued, pacing up and down the living room. "I might ask my own contacts whether they saw something similar. Either way, we'll send you a patronus if we get a message. You may consider a patronus too, coming here directly isn't the most convenient for you. Speaking of convenient, your time to return safely to Grimmauld Place is running short."

"He's right, we should go and see if Kreacher came back," Harry agreed, standing up and nodding. 

"Can you get there safely?" John asked. He also got up like the rest, though his expression was more worried than his companion's. "We could manage something with Mycroft if-" 

"No-no, don't worry about us!" Hermione interrupted, not wanting to cause trouble or draw attention to any of them. It was too bad already, she didn't want their help to be in danger right now. "We got here just fine, going back will be a breeze. Right, boys?" 

"It better be," murmured Ron and he got lightly slapped on the arm by Hermione. 

"Really, we're fine."

"We survived six years of Hogwarts, walking in London while Death Eaters want to hunt you down? I do that as a morning exercise," joked Harry, taking out his Invisibility Cloak, its silvery lining glimmering in the remaining afternoon light. Sherlock's eyes sparkled at the sight of it, but he stayed quiet, hands in pockets.  
He'll get his hands on it eventually. 

"Thanks again for agreeing on helping us."

"With pleasure." 

The two men saw them off the door, pretending to having been checking out the weather. 

"So fresh, isn't it?" John smiled at a passerby, stretching his arms into the sky, then hanging them just as fast down to his sides, his face dropping. 

Sherlock shut and locked the door behind them once back inside. 

Once closed, Sherlock jumped up excitedly and grabbed John by the shoulders. 

"Yes! Oooh, it's Christmas, John, it's brilliant!" 

"What, Harry Potter on the run from a maniac wizard who tries to kill him since he was born?" 

"If you put it like that it loses its charm, John, do lighten up a little," Sherlock patted him on the cheek. 

He vanished on the ground floor corridor, leaving John at the bottom of the stairs. He hadn't seen him this lively since the beginning of the summer where Mycroft's umbrella caught on fire 'accidentally'. 

When Sherlock returned, he was eating a small cupcake he stole from Mrs. Hudson's fridge. John shrugged it off, at least he ate something himself today, plus it's not like their landlady would mind. 

"Sherlock, don't forget this is Death Eaters and the Dark Lord we're talking about," John said while Sherlock passed him to walk up to their flat. "We have to be careful. Are you listening?" 

John felt the eye roll. "They left us alone so far, I don't see there's anything to be afraid of. For once, Mycroft's protection is coming in handy."

"Do you genuinely want to help the kids?" 

"Yes, of course."

"Then promise me you'll be cautious," John grabbed his shoulder and looked him in the eye, blue and silver meeting halfway. "This is a matter of life and death, Sherlock."

Seconds passed, then the detective cleared his throat.  
"I promise that I'll be more careful than usual," he said. It was now John's turn to roll his eyes. 

"Why do I bother, I'll be there to save you anyway," he sighed, defeated. He knew what to expect, though he had no intentions of thinking about it. 

"As you always do."

Sherlock pressed half a cupcake into John's hand and reached for his coat and scarf. John looked a little disheartened, definitely contemplating the size of the case they just took upon themselves,but nonetheless he put on his jacket and ate the other half of Mrs. Hudson's cupcake. 

"Where are we going?" asked John when Sherlock dashed downstairs. 

"Just a stroll near Thames, nothing incriminating."

John snorted. Nothing involved with Sherlock couldn't be not incriminating at least to a certain degree when he was involved in a case. He smiled to himself, after all he loved the adrenaline that came with this, and chased after the detective. In the end, it's been like this ever since they've met seventeen years ago. 

X

The Great Hall was overflowing with students, it smelled of the most delicious food and one could feel the magic seeping throughout the room and Castle. 

John Watson along with his fellow First Years walked in, Professor McGonagall in the lead. She instructed them to wait in the middle of the hall until their name was called and they would be sorted into the four Hogwarts houses, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. John didn't really have a preference as to where he would like to be - maybe in Hufflepuff like his older sister Harriet? She was in her third year now, and he searched the tables for her, but there were too many new faces he didn't recognise. 

The small crowd of First Year's grew more and more anxious with every second they had to stand out in the open. It wasn't exactly comfortable being exposed to the whole school like that - as if the older students were vultures waiting for the moment to descend upon the innocent children and devour them. 

John shook his head quickly at that thought, he didn't want to get even more nervous than he already was. He looked around in an attempt to find a similarly lost soul he could talk to, but everyone either already found a friend or avoided his gaze. He was alone. 

Finally, Professor McGonagall turned to the First Years. Next to her was a small stool with a very old and shabby hat… At least John thought it looked like a hat, Harriet wasn't overly specific as to what was going to happen. Will he have to complete a task or answer a question to the old hat? He'd rather not, it wouldn't add nicely to his nervousness. He was on the verge of biting his nails, which wasn't good. 

"Let's get this over with," groaned a boy on John's left. 

He watched the sorting of first three people with a frown, mumbling to himself. So far the kids only hopped onto the stool, Professor placed the hat on their head and then it shouted the house where they belonged - no questions asked or answered. 

"Where would you like to be?" John asked the boy. A girl was sorted into ravenclaw as they spoke. 

"Anything but the green snakes," he said, shivering. "Not during the war now for sure... What about you?" 

"I don't know," John said truthfully. Harriet didn't fill him in on Hogwarts and doing it last minute would be tedious, so they let that be. "I don't really have a preference."

"You act like it mattered outside of Hogwarts," said another boy on John's right. He was slightly taller than the other two and his dark curls were lazily groomed. 

"Yeah well, it matters now," said the other boy trying to defend himself. "With those…" he lowered his voice and leaned in closer to the boys so only they could hear, "Death Eaters, you know?"

"Their house is irrelevant to their actions. You act repulsed because your father, like anyone at the Ministry right now, is having problems with them infiltrating the place."

"Are you defending them?!" 

"No, I'm simply saying that it's childish to put their evil doings to an old system of sorting that's been in use for hundreds of years," said the taller boy smugly. 

"And how do you know who my dad is?" 

"You resemble him a lot and since the Daily Prophet tails the Aurors he had a lot of appearances recently," explained the boy. "It's enough to put it together if you're not blind. Plus you share the same name as him, Greg Lestrade. I doubt the coincidence is too big to mean you two aren't related."

"How do you know they share the same name?" John asked, equally as puzzled as the other boy.  
He rolled his eyes, but explained. "It's on his luggage, plus it's worn out, probably passed down from an older relative of his. That doesn't mean his family isn't well off, just that they maybe didn't have as much time to get everything brand new. And the name tag, of course. It hasn't changed at all, and no one tried to scribble his first name out, therefore my conclusion."

"Sherlock Holmes!" Professor McGonagall called out, and the dark-curled boy whipped his head up. He left with a smug look on his face, John and Greg were floored. What the hell just happened? 

"Who was he?" said Greg in disbelief. 

"I'd guess Sherlock Holmes," John laughed and outstretched his hand to Greg. "I'm John Watson while we're at it." 

"Well, he did the job for me," said Greg and they turned to the front where the Sorting Hat had just shouted his house: RAVENCLAW.

Greg audibly let out a sigh. "Thank goodness, I was starting to get worried it may be worse than we thought."

John let out a chuckle, although he still didn't really understand what it was about the houses and the stigma around the one with snakes. He'll ask Greg later. 

Soon enough Professor McGonagall got to the letter L, and Greg was called forth. Seconds after sitting down the Sorting Hat had shouted: HUFFLEPUFF, and off the boy went to join the yellow Badgers. A small boy followed shortly, Jim Moriarty, and he was sorted into Gryffindor,though he didn't look too thrilled about it. 

It seemed to John that time moved quicker when he was left alone. He heard the Hat shout GRYFFINDOR and SLYTHERIN a few more times as well as RAVENCLAW and HUFFLEPUFF, equally enthusiastic. 

At last, when there were three kids left, Professor McGonagall said John's name and he stepped forward.  
Once he sat down and the Hat touched his light, ruffled hair, he heard a faint voice.  
John flinched. 

"God damnit!" Great, now people were looking at him. They were before, but now he looked even sillier. 

Did I startle you? 

"Uhm, maybe? Who are you?" he whispered the words, eyes narrowed down on the floor. He didn't want to look even more ridiculous. 

Hm, peculiar, you would fit into more than one house, but so did a few others. Lots of bravery like a true gryffindor, yes, and loyalty, not strange to a hufflepuff. The wit is there as well, ravenclaw wouldn't be bad either, and healthy ambition of a slytherin is present. 

"Is that good?" John mumbled and scratched the back of his neck. 

Yes, your traits are very well balanced, but there's fire in you that outshines the other choices slightly. Truly, it's stronger than you let on or realise. 

"But I'm just a boy," protested John. How could he be strong and brave? He never encountered something dangerous where he could prove it to the Sorting Hat. The only time he remembered feeling brave was when he hurt his ankle while playing outside and not crying about it while he got himself inside his family's house. That was three years ago, just before his sister left for Hogwarts. Other than that, there were no instances that came to mind where John was exceptionally brave. 

"I don't think Gryffindor is a house for me," he said. "I haven't had the chance to prove I am brave, how can you be so sure? And I almost failed math last year, I don't know if wit is the right word…" 

The strange Hat's voice chuckled at this sudden memory, as much as he could be sure that it laughed. 

Being humble is good, but underestimating oneself is not. Do you really think you're not brave enough? 

John thought for a moment. He dared look up and face the Great Hall. Was he taking too long? It didn't seem like it, the students didn't look impatient or bored and Professor McGonagall wasn't shooing him away. But what John realised that he wasn't scared or nervous anymore. The dread he felt prior to being called here was simply gone. Maybe that was a sign of bravery? Small but meaningful? He never dreamed of having so many eyes rest on him, and he'd say he was taking it exceptionally well. Maybe he was braver than he thought. 

So it is decided. 

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Sorting Hat shouted and the table on John's left erupted with clapping as he joined his fellow house-mates. 

He was shooed off by Professor McGonagall and sat down next to his classmates. Someone even patted him on the back as an encouragement. He looked up to see another kid be sorted into Slytherin and he searched the Hufflepuff table for his sister. He spotted her and she excitedly waved at him. Not far from her was Greg who gave him a thumbs up. He looked over the Ravenclaw table too, but the boy he had in mind was already piercing him with his bright eyes. He turned to the Headmaster of Hogwarts without any gesture of acknowledgement, John turning his attention Albus Dumbledore as well. 

"Good evening, First Years," he began, his silvery beard reaching his knees. John could see from his table it was groomed nicely. "Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I hope you all have a good stay and that you retain and cultivate the education you are provided, at least until the end of the school year, that is."

Laughter arose from the tables; Dumbledore seemed fun to John as far as he could tell. The light-hearted atmosphere changed almost imperceptibly to gloomy, however. 

"One thing that I have to mention, though, is of great importance," Dumbledore said and observed each house over his half-moon spectacles. The chit-chat died down immediately, as if the entire student body embraced itself to face something grave. 

"As many of you may have heard from your parents or family members, the wizarding world is at war against Lord Voldemort and his accomplices." Many students ducked or flinched when he said the name 'Lord Voldemort' but John thought it sounded rather silly. Who calls themselves 'Lord' nowadays? 

"I don't mean to frighten you, as I am sure that Lord Voldemort will not seize power," Dumbledore continued. All eyes were on him. "As long as you are in Hogwarts, nothing will happen to you. No evil doings will harm you, as long as you respect the grounds we are on. And lastly, remember - we are as strong as our trust in each other. Unity is our greatest strength in times of trouble like these."

He was silent for a few seconds to let the words sink in, then he suddenly cheered up. 

"Now, with the hard news behind us, allow me to introduce you to our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Dartenyll." The Headmaster motioned towards the seat of a young woman, probably in her forties, she stood up and bowed as the students clapped for her. Dumbledore turned to the students one last time, "I think I bored you enough for today, let us feast." 

He moved his right hand as if in a slow wave and the tables bloomed with the most amazingly looking food John had the chance to taste. He helped himself to a double, even, chatting up a fellow First Year, a boy named Carl Powers, and a Prefect, Mike Stamford. 

"What war was he talking about?" John inquired and bit into a chicken leg. 

Mike and Carl looked at each other uncomfortably. "It's not really a dinner topic," said Mike, "but I'll tell you later. It's… Kind of harsh."

"Okay, sorry, I had no idea it was that bad," said John. He felt tense now, but brushed it off quickly when Carl smiled at him. He understood. 

"You don't know much about this world, do you?" said Carl as he sipped pumpkin juice. 

"Well…" Truth be told, no. Harriet isn't the most talkative sister, and she often used it to her advantage when she wanted him to do chores for her. Even though he did, John was always given half the promised tales and he learned to take what she said with a grain of salt. That didn't mean he stopped, no, he was too curious about this magical world to just let go, but his sister's reign ended when he got his letter from Hogwarts this summer. He made a promise to himself that he'd wait and see for himself what magic has to offer. "I really don't know much, no."

"That's alright mate," Mike said and he dug into a pie. "You'll learn a lot and you'll also get sick of it eventually. Trust me on that one, speaking from experience."

John shrugged. He was more than sure he would not get bored that easily, but he'll keep that in mind. Somewhere far, far back. 

What would be so boring, anyway? It's magic! Up until Harriet became eleven he had no idea it actually existed. After all, apart from the two of them, the Watson family had no wizards in it. Their parents weren't too thrilled about it, but came to terms with it quite fast and the parents, too, became more curious as to what it was about. 

The feast came to and end when everyone stuffed themselves full, so Professor Dumbledore ordered the Prefects to take the students to their dormitories at last. On their way out John met with Greg, who was obviously delighted with the food here. 

"I'd have more, but we had to go," he longed, turning around to stare at the clean tables. 

"I'm sure there will be more food tomorrow," John assured him and waved a goodbye as they separated at the stairs. 

The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws were the only two houses who resided in the highest towers, but they too had to be separated by stairs… That moved on their own. The first time it happened John would have lost his balance if it weren't for the line of people behind and in front of him. Over the stairs he caught the other boy, Sherlock, looking at him again. He waved at him, but he turned away as if he were a ghost. John found it odd but couldn't give it much thought as the line of First Years moved forward. 

"Gillyweed," said Mike, stopping in front of a painting. To John's surprise, it opened! "The Fat Lady will let you in once you tell her the password. It changes every week, so please make my life easier and pay attention when we change it, okay? This here is our study room, you'll spend a lot of time here. First Year boys after me, I'll show you where you sleep."

John followed the older Prefect wordlessly, taking in the scenery around him. Everything looked so… Ancient, yet new and fresh and familial. 

John was showed to a circular room with five four-poster beds; his bed had his suitcase at its feet. Carl was next to him, and three other boys he didn't know - someone named Bill, Teo, and Richard - shared the room with them. 

He didn't realise how tired he really was until he plopped down on his bed, utterly defeated by Hogwarts' cooking, (not that he minded). Carl was still talking to him, but John only managed to polite hum back, his eyelids heavy. He hoped this wasn't just some fever dream, Hogwarts was an awesome place! Tomorrow he would wake up and start his classes, how crazy was that? No more math or boring reading classes…. No, he will learn how to do magic. 

Even though the lights were off and the rest of the boys went to sleep, John sat up and opened his trunk trying to find his wand. They bought it at Diagon Alley two weeks ago, but he was told he can't do magic outside of the school grounds, so he had to put it away to avoid accidents. Mr. Ollivander, the shopkeeper, was a very kind man, though a little odd, but he helped John find the right wand for him. Or, as he put it, the wand chose him, which seemed plausible seeing as there was magic everywhere. 

He found his wand after minutes of blindly patting through his robes from Madam Malkin's and sweaters. He returned back under the covers, hiding his wand under his pillow. 

"Fir wood, twelve and a half inches, core made with unicorn hair" said Mr. Ollivander, handing the blond boy the wand. The moment John made contact with it, he felt tingles in his fingers and warmth spread within his body. "Ah, I see it chose you." 

John fell asleep with a satisfied smile on his face that night. 

~

The next day, John and his dorm mates gathered in the Great Hall for breakfast, and a little while later Professor McGonagall handed everyone their schedules. 

"We have Charms with Hufflepuffs and then Transfiguration with Slytherins," said Carl next to John. "And then we have our Flying lesson!" 

"How are they going to teach us to fly?" 

"Broomsticks," said Carl. He looked around the table, frowning slightly. A small thin boy, Jim Moriarty, sat alone at the end of the table and Carl didn't like it. "I'll go talk to him, he looks sad. You can go ahead, I'll catch up with you, John."

John looked at the watch on his wrist. "You better hurry, the class starts in five minutes. How do I get there?" 

"No idea." 

John sighed. He swinged his back over his shoulder and made for the doors. Once outside the Great Hall, a hand seized his arm and an out-of-breath Greg appeared. 

"We have Charms together!" he said excitedly. 

"Yeah, do you know where the class is?" 

"Third Floor, I asked our Prefect, she was really nice about it," replied Greg and he lead the way. 

It turned out to be much harder, though, to get to their destination. They had to conquer a few sets of stairs to get to the class on the Third Floor corridor, but the stairs refused to cooperate and moved on their own. Thankfully a Fifth Year student helped them out to get to class on time. 

Greg and John sat together. Carl and Jim entered ten minutes later, deserving a mild scolding from Professor Flitwick who taught them, and then the class resumed normally. They took out their books (with enchanted moving pictures!) and Professor Flitwick began explaining the basics of the Levitation Charm. They even got to try it out on their quills, but many had problems with the pronunciation at first. John was able to lift the quill on his fourth try or so, and it made him feel very accomplished. Greg succeeded too, though it took a bit longer in his case. Charms overall were a breeze, especially compared to Transfiguration. 

Transfiguration was taught by Professor McGonagall, John's Head of the House, and there was no doubt this would be the harder class to pass. She was strict and it was obvious she would not tolerate any fooling around, judging by the amount of homework she assigned them. 

"And here I thought the first week would be easy," said John to Greg upon leaving the classroom. "What do you think so far?" 

"I'd like to Wingardium Leviosa the homework away," Greg grunted and then yelled out. He fell down the last two steps that seemingly vanished when stepped on. 

"Are you alright?" 

"Yeah - who put that there?" 

"Maybe it's a defense mechanism," said John, shrugging. "We have Flying class now, right?" 

"I think so. I hope I won't fall off." 

The Flying class took place outside the castle on the lower grounds. First Years from all four Houses gathered on a wide enough lawn and waited for Madam Hooch, their teacher, to show up. 

John greeted Carl and Jim, who looked less sulky than in the morning, and he caught glance of Sherlock, the Ravenclaw boy. He was standing alone at a distance from others, hands in pockets, chin held up high, waiting. He was taller than everyone in the year, maybe with the exception of a scrunchy looking Slytherin boy whose eyebrows were as unruly as his attitude towards Gryffindors.

"Hey, remember him?" John poked Greg and nodded in Sherlock's direction. 

"How could I forget that creepy moment?" 

"He looks lonely, maybe we could chat him up?" 

"Yeah, you can," said Greg, pushing John forward. "I'll watch from here, I don't want to hear stuff about me, it's your turn."

"Wow, thanks," John raised an eyebrow and turned to brace himself for the encounter. 

"Be careful, though," Greg warned him. 

"Why?" John stopped dead in his tracks. 

"I dunno, it's just… I heard a few people complain about him. Apparently he was docked points today during the first period for deducing something about his classmates, maybe even the teacher. Same stuff as yesterday, people find it creepy." 

"They could exaggerate, you know?" John defended the Ravenclaw boy. He knew that kids could be nasty, he witnessed bullying like this in his elementary school and he wasn't a fan of it in the slightest. "It won't hurt to talk to him." 

"If you think so. Good luck!" 

John let out a sigh and his legs subconsciously moved towards the boy with blue tie. 

Sherlock noticed him when he was halfway from him, but didn't say a word yet. He only observed the blond boy approach, as if he expected him to round the corner last second to avoid him. To his surprise, the Gryffindor boy continued forth. 

"Uhm, hey - Sherlock, right? I'm John Watson, we didn't have time to introduce ourselves yesterday," he outstretched his hand, Sherlock's eyes piercing him to his place where he firmly stood. 

Sherlock shook his hand, it was strangely cold, and then he moved his curls from his eyes so he could see better. He didn't say much on his own. 

To avoid the embarrassing moment of silence, John tried to come up with some topic they could talk about. 

"Uhm, I noticed you don't have anyone to talk to, is everything alright?" he asked sheepishly. He wasn't sure how to approach this. 

"I'm perfectly fine. I prefer being alone."

"That's cool, I guess… Hey, that thing you did yesterday with Greg? It was pretty amazing! How did you do it?" 

"I simply observed and read his name tag," replied Sherlock dryly. He wasn't interested in John or this conversation one bit. 

"It was still interesting," John said persistently. "Could you deduce something about me?" 

Sherlock did a double take mentally - did he just ask him that willingly? 

John felt the weight of his silver eyes scan him head to toes. He crossed his arms, which exposed the watch he had on his left hand. Sherlock stepped closer, examining him from all angles as he circled around the Gryffindor boy like he was some sort of old painting. 

"Your family is doing well financially, you have a slight tan on your hands and neck that indicates a holiday abroad, possibly France," Sherlock said. "Also the trunk you dragged yesterday was brand new, so are your robes. The only thing that doesn't really belong to the view is the wrist watch, which is peculiar in itself." Sherlock took his hand and rotated it over as much as John's bones allowed him to. "They're not typically made for wizarding standards, therefore you must have a muggle background, muggle-born or half-blood, doesn't matter. The material is soft and matte, not metal, plus it seems to have been someone else's, it's quite worn-out. Safe to say it's from an older brother, you wouldn't wear it weren't it for the sentimental value, and the inscription 'Harry' is rather revealing and frankly, I doubt you'd rename yourself for the sake of old watch."

"That… was amazing, brilliant even," John said, scratching the side of his neck. Sherlock smirked. 

But before the two could talk more, Madam Hooch arrived and the lesson started. 

~

Flying lessons were cool, the broomstick wasn't that hard to ride, and it even jumped into his hand on the first try! Even Greg did good, unlike a few First Years who simply hated playing with their chances with gravity and preferred to stay firmly on their two feet. 

After the lesson the school day was over and John and the rest were free to have lunch. 

"Shame we can join the Quidditch team in our second year and not now," said Greg and he stuffed himself with potatoes. 

"We can get more training done, though," John said and helped himself to some chicken and rice. "I think it's better to be prepared with the lessons." 

"I suppose. What about the Transfiguration essay? How are we supposed to do it?" 

"Professor recommended us to go to the library," John said. "I guess we can give it a shot."

"Alright we can go together. Hey, who do you have potions with?" 

John checked his schedule again. He didn't check ahead what the rest of the week looked like. On Tuesday he had Charms again, then History of Magic and Flying again. On Wednesday there was Transfiguration, Herbology, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and at midnight they had Astronomy lessons. Thursday started off with Potions with Ravenclaw, followed by Transfiguration and History of Magic. Friday consisted of Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. 

"Potions with Ravenclaw," John told Greg. 

"Damn, that means we have Slytherin…" 

"What's so bad about them? They seem alright to me. Surely they haven't done something bad."

Greg choked on his bite. "Mate you haven't been reading the Daily Prophet, were you? You-Know-Who was a Slytherin, and look what he's doing!" 

"I don't know who," said John, dumbfounded. Who was he supposed to know? He's been here for one day, does he have to keep track of every passerby? 

Greg frowned. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, John. He's the most evil wizard ever. He has those cronies helping him, the Death Eaters. My dad's been having troubles because of them lately."

"But what's the deal? Why's he so evil?" 

"He says muggles, or anyone who isn't a pure-blooded wizard isn't worthy of anything. He really dislikes muggles, and muggle-borns. He wants only true wizards to study at Hogwarts."

"Oh," was the only thing John came up with as a response. 

"Exactly," said Greg, pushing his plate aside. "And you know what House were they in? Slytherin."

"But that doesn't mean all of them are like that!" John said, turning his head to the Slytherin table. "Just because some of them do bad things doesn't mean the rest should be shamed, Greg." 

The Hufflepuff pursed his lips together. "Yeah, I know… But it's scary. You don't know who to trust." 

~

The rest of the week went smoothly, although the amount of homework could be greatly reduced. Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts were John's favourite subjects, though Professor Dartenyll also gave them homework in form of essays, but not as long as the Transfiguration ones. History of Magic was an okay class, but he struggled to keep his attention on Professor Binns who, despite being a ghost, didn't offer an interesting insight on the subject or how it felt 'living' as a ghost. Astronomy was confusing, but Herbology was relaxing, apart from the fact that some plants liked to get dangerously close to the tiny First Years and sniff them. 

Right now, John was walking down to the Hogwarts basement where Potions took place. It was taught by Professor Slughorn and he had quite the good reputation among the students. He was said to be cheery and lenient, so John hoped at least here he wouldn't have much homework. 

There was a crowd of people as he rounded the corner that blocked the corridor to the Potions class. 

He tried getting through, but as he forced himself to the front, he found himself standing at the edge of a circle, inside were two older students - and Sherlock. John watched horrified as the older student, a strong young man, perhaps a Sixth Year, hit the Ravenclaw across the face with so much force he fell on the ground. The crowd gasped, but no one made an effort to stop the fight. 

"Not so snarky on the ground, are you, Holmes?" growled the Sixth Year, his hands in fists. The other student was a girl, but she only passively paced behind the tough guy. He made for a kick at Sherlock, but that's when John sprung into action. 

Since they didn't start the Knockback Jinx yet and Wingardium Leviosa wasn't going to be exactly useful, John had to think on his feet. That's why he grabbed a thick Charms book from his backpack and threw it at the guy with all his might. 

"You better leave him alone!" he shouted, the Sixth Year tripping on his robes as the book hit him in the face. 

"What are you doing? Get lost!" the girl said as if spitting venom. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into." 

"Why are you beating Sherlock?" 

"It's his fault for being nosy. He has no right to-" 

"It's not nosy if the whole school knows about it," interrupted Sherlock from the ground. He got on his elbows and held the black sleeve to his lower lip. "Maybe if you were more discreet about your infidelity-" 

John took a protective stance in front of Sherlock as the girl took out her wand and aimed at him. John reciprocated the gesture despite the fact he couldn't defend neither himself nor Sherlock. 

The crowd held their breath awaiting their every move. But before they could curse each other off, a chilling voice from behind the mass of people told them off. 

"If you don't want to start the year with negative points I'd advise you let go of this silly trifle, Blake. You too, Anne." 

John turned around to face a tall Ravenclaw Prefect, his badge shining in the little light of the dungeons. 

Anne and Blake scoffed at the Prefect but retorted and left the dungeons immediately.

"Why must Ravenclaws act so weird all the time?" he heard Blake say as he ran up the stairs. 

John shook his head and offered Sherlock a hand, which he declined by muttering "I'm fine" and off he went into the Potions classroom, his lip bloody. 

With a glance of the Prefect, the crowd dissolved into their respective classes and only John and himself stood in the deserted corridor. John mumbled an apology and hurried behind Sherlock, he didn't want to cause any more trouble than he possibly already did. 

"Ah, Mr. Watson I believe?" greeted him Professor Slughorn upon arriving. "Take a seat, take a seat, we've just marked presence."

John scanned the available seats, and soon he found himself sitting next to the beaten up Ravenclaw at the very end of the room. He sulked behind the desk and viciously ignored the Gryffindor as if he hadn't even register him there. 

"Hey - Sherlock?" John began, taking out his quill and inkwell. "You don't have to feel embarrassed." 

"I'm not," he said, frowning at the pages of his book. 

"Not very convincing," said John. "Look, I only wanted to help you. It's not right to beat up a First Year. What did you even tell them?" 

"I only stated that if he wants to cheat on his girlfriend, he should do it with a person that doesn't cheat with her at him at the same time," Sherlock said, voice flat. Professor Slughorn wrote instructions on the board to turn to page twenty-eight in their books to start working on their first potion. 

"Well, maybe you could've put it more nicely? Scratch that, you can't put that as anything to not sound offensive."

"I tell the truth, that should be nice enough." 

"Everyone's nice is different." 

"Obviously. You're still here," it sounded as if Sherlock discovered a new species of something. 

"Yeah, does it bother you? I thought we might be friends." 

Sherlock laughed. "I don't have friends. I usually work alone." 

"Wow, no need to be rude about it," said John, wondering how the hell he wasn't being offended right now. "How do people react when you tell them this?" 

"Piss off." 

They looked at each other. As soon as their eyes met, they broke down laughing, for which they were scolded by the Professor - it also earned them quizzical looks from their classmates, but they didn't really care. 

"Look, I actually liked your deduction yesterday and I thought about it," John told Sherlock as they started working on their solutions. Sherlock didn't let on whether he was surprised by that statement, or that he was listening at all. "It was fascinating, I felt like I was being investigated by some super x-ray or something." 

"What's an x-ray?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from his potion. 

"Oh, you don't know? It's what doctors use to see if a person broke their bones, for example."

Finally, Sherlock gave him a raised eyebrow as though John came from another planet. Goodness gracious, thought John. 

"Doesn't matter, but it was brilliant!" 

"Mhm, you said that yesterday. Please don't repeat yourself." 

John shrugged him off and talked on. "You got right that I'm a muggle-born," he said, adding some powder to his potion and it turned purple. "You got right France, we've been there for a week, and the watch is also from my older sibling." 

Sherlock smirked - he was always right. 

"But Harry is a childhood nickname of my sister Harriet, not a name of my brother." 

John suppressed a laugh when Sherlock slowly turned his head to face him. "Sister?" 

"Yep." 

"Ugh, a sister? Seriously!" 

"Hey, you still did great," John patted him on the back, chuckling. 

"So, how are we doing?" Professor Slughorn said loudly as he examined the potions desk by desk. John stared at his own in horror, in the meantime of him chatting he forgot to add newt eyes to his solution and the whole thing was bright orange instead of lime green. 

"Oh god," he sighed, staring at it in disbelief. How was he going to explain this? 

But before he could fully descend into panic mode, Sherlock tapped on his cauldron with his wand and it disappeared and he poured half of his solution into John's cauldron. Both of them were praised by the Professor, though he was surprised there was so little of it. 

"Thanks," John said after the class was over. Sherlock nodded and the two departed. "If you get in trouble you know who to call!" 

~

Weeks passed and so did the weather. Last bits of summer were lost and changed by chilly wind and heavy rains, which made Flying lessons difficult and unbearable, but they made do. When fall transformed into winter, the castle was decorated beautifully by Professor Flitwick's charms and spells, which made the atmosphere quite lively and relaxed and helped soothe the uncomfortable news spread by the Daily Prophet about more and more incidents at the Ministry conducted by the Death Eaters. 

But apart from that, the castle moved on and Professor McGonagall didn't care it was a time of festivities, she still unloaded essays upon her students like it was raining cats and dogs. 

Sherlock and John actually became quite the duo as the semester progressed. It started with their simple experiments with potions outside of classes (John liked the subject more than Charms now) and eventually the crazy adventures started, too.

The week before Christmas when John had breakfast on a Saturday morning, his owl Henry delivered him a short message. 

Come to dungeons after breakfast if convenient.  
SH

Just that. Soon after another owl delivered a second message. 

If inconvenient, come anyway.  
PS: could be dangerous.  
SH

The Ravenclaw watched him turn and stare at him. "Was this necessary?" he mouthed across the Hall, but laughed. 

Sherlock wouldn't let it on, but he was secretly very glad John took the offer. There was something about him that wasn't that annoying to Sherlock as it usually was the case with his peers. And most importantly, he wasn't outright angry when he blurted out a deduction or so, he thought it was brilliant. Sure, he heard people use it a lot so the word lost its meaning, but this was somehow different. 

~

"What's the matter?" 

Sherlock leaned on a pillar near the dungeon basement. He was bored but remained indifferent on the surface as per usual. 

"I discovered a secret room down the corridor," Sherlock said and walked that way. Their steps echoed in the moist basement. 

"How? Is it allowed to discover this stuff?" 

"Who cares? I doubt many people know about it," he stated lightly and he turned right. 

"What if we get hurt?" said John, trying to keep up with Sherlock's long steps. He was almost running. 

"You came here in spite of my statement there may be danger involved," said Sherlock. He was right, again. 

"Well I can't exactly leave you to fend off danger yourself now, can I? Where's the room?" 

They came to a halt in front of an empty, mouldy wall enlightened by two torches at its sides. 

"That's it?" 

"Yep." 

"It's a wall…" 

"Brilliant deduction, John," said Sherlock flatly. John poked him, rolling his eyes. 

"Well, you're the genius here - what's so brilliant about a wet wall?" 

Sherlock took out his wand, pointed at the stone wall and said, "Alohomora!" 

To John's utter surprise, the wall became transparent and revealed a hidden room behind the papery veil. Sherlock looked down at him, satisfied, and walked right in. 

"How did you know it was here?" John asked, stunned by the warmth that crept up his sleeves - a complete opposite of the dungeons. 

"I noticed it was out of place before," said Sherlock, circling the room. "It's a southern wall, those tend to be dryer than Northern walls, but not in this case. The castle would have to be oriented differently for it to look natural, but it is not. It sticks out like a sore thumb."

"Wow, when do you have the time to notice it?" said John, smiling. Sherlock shrugged as if it was nothing. 

"That's not the best part, though." He crouched on the floor and examined the tiles closely. John tiptoed over to him and he almost tripped and fell on his face if it weren't for Sherlock grabbing him by the collar. 

"Careful, the floor is an illusion," he told the Gryffindor and showed him by poking the floor with his wand. It impaled the stone like it were cake. 

"Oh my god I could've died!" shouted John, bewildered. "How are you so calm? If you took a step further you could've fallen who knows where!" 

"I didn't, so calm down," said Sherlock flatly. "Besides, we can find out what's below there. So, who's going first?" 

"Who's going first? Are you mad? What if it's a free fall?" John seriously considered backing out, but he was intrigued at the same time what could be below the illusion. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the smaller Gryffindor. "You won't fall - I'll hold you by the ankles. It's better if you do it, you're lighter than me." 

"Fine, but then we're out," bargained John and he took off his robes so he was only in his trousers and white shirt - robes got into the way a lot, actually. 

He carefully stepped to the edge of the illusion, holding onto Sherlock for dear life. If, by any random chance, he trips and falls through, he's taking the Ravenclaw with him. 

"You should go head first," said Sherlock impatiently as John hesitated to crouch down. 

"I'll let you do it since you're so smart," John snapped back at him, jumped a little to relieve the anxious feeling, then kneeled. He waited until Sherlock got a hold of his ankles and he sank below the spell, ever so slowly. 

Had the room above been brighter, this would be its polar opposite. At first, John couldn't make out a single shape, but he touched a rough wall and as his eyes got used to the darkness surrounding him, he saw that a few feet down was a wooden platform wide enough to fit two people onto it. In the distance a rushing of water could be heard, but he had no idea how far. It resembled a cave to a certain degree, but architecture of the castle reached even lower, oddly enough. 

John felt a tug at his feet and he almost got a heart attack that Sherlock was going to let go of him, but that didn't happen. 

"Sherlock? Can you help me up?" he called after his companion. "Sherlock?" 

His voice echoed off the surface until it perished in on itself. A cold wind swept through the cave, causing chills to run down John's spine. He had a strange feeling he wasn't alone in this place anymore. A growl sounded in his ears unlike anything John had ever heard up until that point. 

"Sherlock! Get me out of here!" 

Just as the growl was nearing him, Sherlock pulled him up into safety. A pair of glowing eyes drilled into his skin like nails. 

"What took you so long?" John hyperventilated and crawled to the opposite end of the secret room. 

"What did you see?" Sherlock inquired, ignoring the question. He asked in such manner as though John and him were discussing weather. 

"Darkness, what d'you think? Then there was some wooden platform beneath me. It's a cave down there, Sherlock, pretty steep and dangerous. I think something lives down there." 

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock dismissed him. "Don't succumb to your imagination."

"Yeah, well, I didn't like it anyway," said John, finally calming down. "Don't you think of going down there!" he added as he caught Sherlock glancing at the tiles, his face hiding emotions, but John had a feeling he was contemplating it. 

"Your description was pretty dull, but then again, Hogwarts has a lot to offer," said Sherlock, turning to John. "Perhaps this was one of the occasions where we weren't so lucky and simply found an underwhelming location. Nevermind, we'll find something better." 

"We? I thought you preferred working alone," John teased him. 

"I do, but exploring the castle with you is not as dreadful as I thought it would be. Don't take it personally."

"I'll try," John chuckled. Sherlock didn't really have a filter on what to say to others, John noticed it fairly quickly, but he didn't mind. Sherlock's mind worked differently than others' and he had his quirks (for example 'accidentally' insulting people), but overall he was cool to be around with. John even convinced Greg to hang out with them and he found him okay, too, though the rumours about Sherlock still spread from time to time. Sherlock didn't seem to mind or even give it a thought, he stashed himself in the library or in his dorm and worked on his experiments. They often included severed tails and eyes of amphibians and maybe once or twice John had his robes catch on fire, but it was fun as long as he didn't end up in the Hospital Wing. 

The two left the strange room, and the protective effect appeared immediately. Weren't it for the tell Sherlock revealed earlier, John would have never guessed there was a room behind it. 

"I'm hungry again," John complained as they exited the dungeons. He checked his watch for time. "Lunch is in two hours, we could work on our Potions essays in the meantime." 

"That's boring," Sherlock said. 

"We have to get it done whether you like it or not. I thought you liked Potions?" 

"It's more interesting when you're free to adjust the ingredients. Besides, Professor Slughorn has mistakes in the steps for his potions, if he bothers to write it on the board. The textbooks are atrocious, there are better ways of brewing." 

"Well at least I know what to get you for Christmas," John joked, but Sherlock stayed indifferent, if a little grumpy. "What? Don't tell me you don't like Christmas!" 

"I don't see what the fuss is about," Sherlock said flatly, taking two steps at a time as he led them to the library. He navigated the magical stairs better than any First Year, and John was glad for that. "All those carols, and sweaters, and cheery, fake attitudes - it's repulsive."

"Hm… Strange, you're the first person who hates Christmas that I know of," John said, his bag full of textbooks heavy on his shoulders. "But you get to spend time with your family, isn't that nice?" 

"Not if it consists of an annoying older brother," Sherlock said with a hint of bitterness in his voice. 

"Is he studying here too?" 

"Unfortunately." 

"Oh. Hey, it surely isn't that bad. My sister and I also fight sometimes, but it's alright, that's what sibling do - annoy each other."

"This is different, he's my enemy," Sherlock said seriously, but the way he told it it made it sound rather funny, but John refrained from laughing. His brother must be exceptionally annoying, then. "It would be beneficial if you didn't meet him."

They came to the library and got into work immediately. John still couldn't comprehend how Sherlock didn't like Christmas, but to each their own he guessed. 

~

Meeting Mycroft Holmes, however, came shortly after. 

It happened rather swiftly. John minded his own business, he was walking along the corridor with Greg to lunch, when a pair of hands grabbed him and escorted him elsewhere without the Hufflepuff noticing. 

"What in the bloody hell?" John shouted as he was pushed into a deserted classroom. 

"Greetings," said a sweet voice on John's left. It was that Ravenclaw that broke up the fight at the beginning of September when John defended Sherlock. 

"Did I get into trouble?" John asked, trying to remember any experiment he did with Sherlock in the last week leading up to Christmas. His memory jumped to the secret room, but not a soul saw them leaving the place. 

"I'm not aware of any. Yet," said the Prefect, a smile curling up his lips. "I apologise for the timing, I usually try to avoid such meetings during breaks, but I've been putting this meeting off for longer than I'd like." 

"I'm sorry, but who are you again?" 

"No one important," purred the Prefect. He leaned comfortably on the desk behind him while John froze to his spot near the doors. "A concerned party, if you will. An enemy, even."

"That still doesn't explain why you kidnapped me from my lunch," John said, crossing his arms. 

"Ah, yes. Where are my manners - I am Mycroft Holmes. I don't think I ever thanked you from helping my brother. I'm not sure he did either. So thank you." 

John had a feeling that his brain froze momentarily. This was Sherlock's older brother? His enemy? Someone who was a Prefect? 

"Oh, he told me about you," John blurted out, which caught Mycroft's attention. 

"Really? Judging by you reaction you're contemplating why he would call me an enemy," Mycroft said with a small smirk. "It's a habit of his, he has tendencies to dislike what I do for him. But what's more peculiar is that you still stand by him." 

It was a simple statement, yet somehow full of wonder. 

"Uhm, that's what friends do," John shifted on his feet. He knew Sherlock said he didn't have friends, but he genuinely believed that they developed an honest friendship. 

"Sherlock has friends now? Interesting," Mycroft said thoughtfully. "As busy as I might be, I still care for my brother's well being. I have an offer for you, John." 

John shivered at the mention of his name. It sounded weird when used so formally. 

"I can make your time with Sherlock worthy," the older Holmes brother continued. "I am willing to pay you in turn for information on what Sherlock is up to. He is quite secretive, and that lands him detentions easily. I hope to keep him out of it if possible." 

John squinted at the Prefect. 

"You want to use my friendship withSherlock so that I could spy on him?" he said in disbelief. "How about you just talked to him yourself?" 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and John saw how characteristic of the brothers it was. "Believe me, I do, but he is too proud to accept my help. Thus my offer." 

"Well, I'm not taking it," John said firmly. "I'm not spying on my friend. Goodbye, Mycroft." 

He left the older Holmes behind, hurrying into the Great Hall to eat at least a bite of toast before the next lesson. 

Sherlock was sitting at the Ravenclaw table for once (he didn't eat consistently as John came to find out, which was bewildering to the Gryffindor) so John plopped down next to him, ignoring glances from the other Ravenclaws. 

"I've just met your enemy," John said and drank some pumpkin juice. 

"Which one?" Sherlock asked, uninterested. 

"Your brother." 

"Ah, I hoped we would avoid it. Did he offer you money to tell on me?" 

"Yes, but I said no." 

"Bummer, think it through next time, we can split the fee," the taller boy said as he watched John stuff himself with grilled cheese. "Can you not do that?" 

"Do what?" 

"Eat like a goblin," Sherlock snapped, shaking off crumbs from his robes. 

"Oh I'm sorry for my biological need to get rid of hunger," John said with full mouth, spitting another few crumbles on Sherlock. 

"We'll work on it," Sherlock said, more to himself than John, but the Gryffindor overheard him and poked him for that. 

"I'll stop eating like a goblin when you start liking Christmas," John said, finishing his third toast. 

"In that case, we can just stop altogether."

"C'mon, it's not so bad! I'll prove it to you one day." 

"Good luck." 

John sighed and looked the Ravenclaw over. He was scribbling down last sentences for a Transfiguration essay that was due in ten minutes. 

"I thought you finished it yesterday," he said, peering over his shoulder. 

"No I just pretended. I observed people in the library." 

"Was it worth it?" 

"We'll see." 

The week ended peacefully. No one sacked Sherlock for his observations in the library, mainly due to the fact that this semester's exams rounded on them and took everyone's time, but also John made sure to be there when situations may have gotten a little heated to stop him from deducing the wrong people. 

On the train back to London John, Sherlock, and Greg found a compartment and spent the ride together. It was mostly John and Greg talking while Sherlock looked out of the window, thinking. He was reserved, though a bit more when someone else besides John was present. Halfway home Carl and Jim joined them. Jim tried to strike up a conversation with Sherlock, but he gracefully ignored him, so he quietly listened to Carl and Greg talk about Quidditch. 

Once in London, the five boys said goodbye to each other as they left the station with their respective families. Sherlock disappeared first, giving John a small nod before getting lost in the crowd of awaiting parents. 

John found his father, a military captain, stand near the brick exit. He easily came across as grumpy and hostile, but underneath the hard surface was an ordinary father of two. 

"Had a good term, Johny?" he asked, taking his son's suitcase and carrying his to their car. 

"Yeah, yeah I did," he said, giving platform nine and three quarters one last look before his holidays officially started. 

X

Sherlock was out of the cab before it fully stopped. John frantically threw the driver a twenty-pound bank note and he rushed after the detective. 

They were near a bridge over the river Thames. Sherlock leisurely walked forward to the pillars holding up the whole structure, taking in the gloomy view. Under the bridge there were a couple homeless people, men and women. 

John followed Sherlock towards a young woman in dirty clothes and a reflective vest selling newspapers, reciting the biggest headline on the front page. 

"Nice weather today, isn't it, sir?" she grinned at the detective, showing him the muggle piece of paper. 

"As always," Sherlock said, handing her a fifty-pound note. He leaned in ever so slightly. "A black-and-golden locket, fits in your palm, has a snake forming the letter 'S' in front. Another thirty if I hear from you by tomorrow." 

"Oh, it should be sunny tomorrow, sir, I think so too," she said, grinning at the both of them. 

"So… This was a stroll near Thames?" John said, laughing. "I should've known." 

"I promised them we would help, I'm doing my job, John, do keep up," Sherlock said, looking back at his companion. "I mean it, you're quite slow today. Hungry? I know a good place not far from here." 

"Last time you said it we ended up being escorted from the National Museum," John reminded him. 

"This is cheaper, and not so narrow-minded." 

"I'll trust you, but only because I am hungry." 

The two men continued bickering about the Museum fiasco while Sherlock led the way to this unknown location. The farther they went, however, the less people or traffic they encountered. Sherlock picked up on it first. 

"What's wrong?" asked John when they stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. 

"No one else is here," Sherlock muttered, observing the surroundings. 

"Maybe a police drill nearby?" 

"Lestrade would let us know ahead of time," Sherlock said. He came closer to John, who also looked around, suspicious and on his toes. 

"Wands out," John murmured. He didn't have to say it twice. Both turned their backs to the other, watching out for their side of the street. 

And then it happened. The sinking feeling of happiness being drained, sucked away from you and the hopeless feeling of not being able to stop it. It dripped and dripped like a broken sink, and then the Dementors appeared. 

Dozens of them soared through the sky about to charge on the two wizards. 

"Sherlock?" 

"Yes, John?" 

"We're fucked." 

A roll of eyes. "You're a wizard - use magic."

"No, I mean we really are fucked."

"It's just Dementors - we dealt with them before-" 

"Greyback." 

Sherlock's mind raced furiously. He turned around to see a shabby looking man with distorted facial features at John's end of the street. A terrible smile lined his face, and next to him were two Death Eaters. 

"We fend off Dementors and Disapparate as fast as possible," said John as if it was a previously made plan. 

Sherlock didn't have to answer to spring into action. With one motion of his wand a silvery Irish setter jumped out and chased away the first line of Dementors descending upon them. Greyback and the two masked men approached, but didn't attack yet. 

"We came to negotiate, don't worry" yelled out the werewolf, laughing maniacally. "We won't hurt you… Yet." 

John and Sherlock stepped back, wands ready. "We do not accept any offers at the moment," Sherlock said smoothly. 

"The Dark Lord says you should think it through," Greyback replied. "After all, he promised deals that would last forever to those that pledge loyalty to him."

"We're still not interested," John said with a bit more force than intended. 

"No? He says that if you joined him, he would provide you with anything you could ask for, especially the detective. If it were on me, I'd have you killed already, and believe me, I'm inching for it, but I've heard about you. Sherlock Holmes, a detective with extraordinary talent. The Dark Lord counted on this, so he is willing to give you a few days to think it through. He would like help solving a mystery or two, so he will be patient with you."

"Our schedule is really full, but thank you for the bonus time," Sherlock said and he stepped forwards to shield John in case they decided to attack. 

Greyback laughed again. "Really, I would have your throats ripped out but I guess I'll do it later. Well, boys, that is all. I'll see you before or during the full moon." 

The werewolf and his companions Disapparated. Sherlock's Patronus ran back down to them and disappeared into thin air as the Dementors flew elsewhere. 

The two men looked at each other. Trouble was on the horizon, and neither was thrilled about it. 

They didn't get to have their dinner out in the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have my reasons for putting Moriarty in Gryffindor, you'll see why as the flashbacks progress. Also, the flashbacks! We need some exposure to go along with the main plot line, huh? They will interlude a bit, but eventually the main plot will even it out, but hopefully you don't mind this style of writing :)  
> I will see you all later~


	3. The Void Stares Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter, we finish John and Sherlock's 1st year at Hogwarts! Also, thank you all for the 10 kudos, they warm my heart <3  
> also, you can follow my tumblr where I mostly reblog Johnlock stuff nowadays - potterlockedstill  
> thanks for reading!

John tied up a tiny bags with Christmas cookies just enough so the paper wouldn't rip open and the cookies wouldn't break apart. He attached a couple notes to it, one to Greg, Carl, and even Sherlock. He was determined to show the smart-ass this time of the year could be enjoyable. Especially when you've got Mrs. Watson's baking samples.

He opened Henry's cage and let the owl out; he settled on the windowsill and watched his owner going through the Christmas mail. Once sure everything was alright, he told Henry who it was for. The owl was more than excited to take it, seeing as John used him only a few times during the first semester to send letters to his family and back.

"Make sure they get it, okay?" he told the owl, which hooted pleasingly. He was perfect for the job, how could he doubt him? John caressed his feathers and then let him out into the cold winter night. He watched Henry fly farther and farther until he was just a tiny dot on the moonlit sky.

The moment he closed the window his sister Harriet marched into the room. Actually, she was Harry now again, as she told him on their ride home.

"Who did you write to?" she asked and she threw herself on John's bed.

"My friends," he frowned. He tidied the bed ten minutes ago!

"That Ravenclaw weirdo too?"

"He's not a weirdo, Harry," John defended Sherlock.

"He is, you just don't see it," Harry said, a provocative smile on her face. "Who on earth can tell you what you did without meeting them before? Only psychopaths do that."

"He's not a psychopath!" John said, hands clenched in fists. "He observes things, he picks up clues! Sure, he may have no filter when it comes to talking, but he is a good guy."

"I'm not convinced," yawned Harry as she stretched her arms. "You better be careful around him, Johnny. Ravenclaws like him have weird hobbies, make sure it doesn't get to you too. I'd hate to have a weirdo for a brother. I finally got used to you being Gryffindor and now this."

"Haha, very funny," John rolled his eyes and he leaned on the doorframe. "I really don't get this House rivalry, why do you judge others?"

"Sometimes it's good," said Harry, sitting up and glaring at John. "Have you heard about the Death Eaters?" John nodded and looked down the ground. "Yeah, they want people like you and I dead. We're nothing to them. Most come from Slytherin, and they have been acting weird too lately."

"Harry, it's not their fault for being placed there," John said. "What if you were placed in Slytherin? Or me?"

That made her shut up, but she still warned him to be wary around Sherlock.

"I've heard what 'deductions' or whatever you call it he made - make sure you won't regret this friendship. Oh, also dinner's ready."

John kept silently arguing with her, but he didn't want to spoil his Christmas mood. He didn't know how to show people that Sherlock was harmless - they could be way too prejudiced and narrow-minded. It'll need time.

He shook his head as though to shake off the conversation he'd had with his sister and then he joyfully jogged down to the kitchen and joined his family.

"Did you send the cookies off?" his mom asked him, distributing soup among the four people.

"Yes, Henry was excited to take it," he said, pulling up the sleeves of his Christmas sweater he got as a present the day before. "I'm sure they'll like them, they're the best cookies ever."

His mom gave him a warm smile, meanwhile his dad cleared his throat to get their attention.

"About the owl… I'd prefer if you limited your use of it for a few days," he said, watching his son.

"Why?"

"I'm expecting visitors from work," his dad explained. "And I don't want to explain how come we have an owl at home that flies in and out however it pleases."

"Oh… But he needs to fly out every now and then, he's a free bird," John said, not really liking the idea of locking Henry up, he was used to being able to fly out of the Owlery at Hogwarts whenever, after all.

"He's yours, so figure it out. My boss doesn't know about any of these magic shenanigans and I don't want to risk my promotion in case things go South."

John looked to his mom for some idea of sorts, anything, but she apologetically shrugged and kept on eating.

He sighed. "Fine, I'll do something about Henry."

~

Sherlock was still awake when John's owl knocked on his window with its beak two days after the last letter and package. It was well after midnight; it took Henry about four hours to get here.

He let the visitor in and untied a short note from its leg.

_Hey, Sherlock, sorry for this swarm of messages, but it's urgent. My dad has visitors from his work and they know nothing about magic. Dad worries they would find it strange if an owl circled around the house, so I had to send him somewhere for a few days. Please, look after him for five days, then send him back. I didn't want Henry to sit in his cage for so long, so I figured he would be happier with you. I'll bring you more of my mom's cookies for the trouble, thanks.  
I hope you have a nice New Years'.  
-John ___

____

Sherlock read the note over four more times. The handwriting was sloppier than usual, he wrote it in a hurry. It also wasn't written on a piece of parchment but rather onto a different, smoother and whiter paper, and John didn't use ink, but probably a ballpoint pen he mentioned two months ago when he was complaining about ink stains in the library. The thin lines interested Sherlock, he'd like to try it out, apparently you didn't have to refill it every few words.

__

Henry's hoot put him out of his muggle-technology-induced trance as he waited for words of praise for such a good delivery. Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket and gave him a treat.

__

This didn't come as a surprise to Sherlock. Daniel Watson, a military captain, was a workaholic, so there was no doubt climbing the career ladder was important to him. He also held a great dislike for the magical world, and Sherlock couldn't comprehend how John didn't realise. Yes, John was aware that his parents were new to this and therefore brushed it off as something they would get used to, but he overlooked the way his father acted around him. It was obvious from the moment Sherlock saw him.

__

He still had affection for his son, but there was an invisible barrier arising between them, not because of John but because of his father's irrational fear that the secret would get out. And since John was more sociable than his sister who didn't need to communicate with her family as much, this was a harder feat to keep up for the captain.

__

Sherlock put the note on his desk and offered Henry his arm, which he happily hopped on. He was a smaller owl, not as heavy as his family's usual delivery owls that he used to carry when he was a kid.

__

As quietly as possible, he left for their owlery outside. As of now, he and his family were in a small country town hidden from every day's drama, as Sherlock's mother had put it. It was one of the bearable places where they could've stayed at, as long as it wasn't a mansion. No, this house was cosy and welcoming, though the company he had to endure spoiled Sherlock's mood greatly. His father's cousins were to arrive today and spend time with them, which meant he had to tolerate idiots even outside of Hogwarts.

__

Sherlock tiptoed over to his shoes and put them on, waking up his dog that was napping nearby.

__

"Hello, Redbeard," he greeted the dog, who wagged his tail. "Shh, you can come with me."

__

Redbeard whimpered and shakily stood up, his paws softly tapping against the floor. He followed Sherlock outside on the porch, yawning and stretching out his legs.

__

The night was cold but windless, so Sherlock didn't need a cloak nor a coat for such a short distance - he was only going to show Henry his place in the Owlery and then return and continue with his experiment.

__

Redbeard trailed the Ravenclaw boy silently, occasionally coming forward to sniff Henry, his scent carrying on the smell of John Watson as well.

__

Upon returning to his room, Sherlock was greeted by the sight of his older brother reading the note from John.

__

"What do you want here?" Sherlock snatched the note from Mycroft.

__

"I thought I heard you leaving," Mycroft said smoothly, his eyes scanning Sherlock up and down.

__

"Then you would've logically gone outside, not into my room," Sherlock snapped and he sat down on his bed, arms crossed. "Why must you snoop in my things all the time?"

__

"I was merely observing your experiment with… beetle eyes and pixie wings," Mycroft said distastefully.

__

"Are you quite done? I have yet to finish and your presence here is distracting," Sherlock said swiftly. Mycroft knew this behaviour, he was getting antsy, but not only because of him.

__

He moved for the door, but stopped midway to glance at Sherlock who turned his back on him while listing through a book about potions.

__

"You know that our extended family is visiting today at noon and they will stay here for three days," he said into the air between them. Sherlock didn't react and tended to his cauldron. "Please behave yourself. It's in your best interest to act according to the rules this time unlike last year."

__

"Rules are dull, Mycroft," Sherlock said indifferently.

__

"But apparently John Watson isn't," Mycroft said more for the reaction than the value of the statement. Sherlock, however, remained composed and didn't let much on.

__

"So?"

__

"So is he your 'friend' now?"

__

"I don't have friends, Mycroft."

__

There a pause lasting a millisecond that the older brother noticed before Sherlock spoke, however. He let it be, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

__

"But of course, brother-dear."

__

Mycroft left, closing the door behind him and Sherlock was alone. He allowed himself to smile after many days of keeping up his reserved appearance. He went back to the drawer next to his bed and took out a festively decorated plastic bag inside of which were cookies John had sent him previously. As much as he didn't care about eating, these cookies were so delicious he craved them ever since he had tasted them two days ago.

__

He would never admit it, but that was the first time he tasted Christmas, and he liked it.

__

~

__

John met Sherlock again on the Hogwarts Express after the holidays were over in an empty compartment.

__

"Had a good Christmas?" John beamed at the Ravenclaw and sat down opposite of him.

__

"I survived, I guess that's an achievement on its own," Sherlock said.

__

"I get you," said John, putting his heavy trunk above his seat. He leaned outside the train window and waved at someone - his mother or father - then sat back down, scratching at the sleeve of his sweater.

__

"Yes, I can see your father's colleagues were pretty aggravating and that you're quite literally itching to get that sweater off - a courtesy of your grandmother, I suppose," Sherlock deduced upon running a quick glance over him. John leaned back, arms crossed, his expression urging Sherlock to go on and explain his thought process. "Oh please, it's simple. The material is common among wizards as well, the difference being that the wool was popular some twenty years back and it remains a favourite of older ladies. The wool itself is from a breed of sheep from the Appalachians, from my research it is uncomfortable to even sheer them, no wonder it's so itchy. The farm shipped to both the wizarding and the muggle worlds, but I believe they got into trouble for illegally enchanting the sheep to grow the wool faster and they got shut down."

__

"When do you have time to research sheep in Appalachians?" John said, amazed at trivia he was sure he'd never use again in his life, though accurate.

__

"Believe it or not, there are better things to do than study Astronomy," Sherlock said lightly.

__

The train tugged forwards, gradually speeding up towards the Hogwarts castle in the North.

__

"You should know at least the very basics," John said, finally giving up and pulling the sweater off of himself. He sighed in relief when the itchiness stopped. "I mean It, Sherlock, do you know how many planets our solar system has?"

__

Sherlock avoided John's gaze and pretended not to hear him.

__

"Earth to Sherlock? Are you kidding me? You don't know?"

__

"It's not like I'm going to launch myself into space tomorrow, why bother?" Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "It's useless to me, John."

__

John's argument as to why he should have at least a general idea of space was shot down by Greg who danced into the compartment, thankfully alone.

__

"Hey guys, how are you?" he grinned, launching himself next to John.

__

Sherlock was glad he didn't have to endure John's rant about planets and how he should try to remember it. Sherlock had better things to store in his Mind Palace than constellations and stars. And indeed, having information about different kinds of sheep wool proved to be valuable when it came to deductions, so he'll stick with it.

__

"Have you seen Carl? I haven't heard from him since New Year's," he heard John say.

__

"I think he was travelling, can't say for sure," Greg said. "I've seen him with that kid, Moriarty, a lot,you know, at Hogwarts. Maybe he's with him somewhere."

__

"Yeah, what's up with him? He's quiet most of the time, shy. I hope he's alright."

__

"Dunno, but Carl may tell us," Greg shrugged, then turned to Sherlock. "And how have you been, genius?"

__

Sherlock looked him over, Greg flinching once he realised he could be deduced again, but Sherlock kept quiet.

__

"Could've been worse, but that's Christmas," Sherlock replied dryly.

__

"Oh yeah, didn't you know? Sherlock hates Christmas," John added, laughing at Greg's scandalised face.

__

"Is this even possible? HOW?"

__

"It's a dull holiday, Lestrade, there's nothing exciting about it," Sherlock's deadpan expression was unreadable.

__

"You must be fun at parties," Greg snorted and put his legs up on the empty seats on Sherlock's side of the compartment.

__

~

__

John was amazed how every feast was better than the previous, the food was beyond delicious, but the cookies he had tasted were incomparable to his mom's.

__

Carl also turned up at the feast. As Greg had assumed, he was around Jim Moriarty, who sulked as hard as ever and kept quiet during the dinner. From what John gathered, Carl had a nice holiday. His family was from Ireland, and he travelled to Wales to see his mom's second cousins he'd never met before, but they were nice people and he enjoyed his stay.

__

"I just didn't get much sleep while there, or ever since I got from there," Carl said while they were on the stairs to their dorm rooms.

__

"Why not?" asked John, reaching into his trunk for pyjamas.

__

Carl gazed at his four-poster bed, the red linen with the Gryffindor emblem on its covers, as if he were searching for something deep inside his brain.

__

"I dunno, I just feel… somehow watched at times, it gets really bad at night," he said in a whisper, his lips barely moving - John had to get closer to hear him properly.

__

"Do you want to talk about it? I won't make fun of you for having nightmares, if that's what worries you."

__

"No, I'm sure it'll pass. Thanks for the offer, though," Carl gave him a weak smile and shuffled to the bathroom to change.

__

~

__

In the middle of the night, John jolted awake at the sound of something knocking on the glass-paned window near his bed. It was Henry waiting for his owner to let him in, which he promptly did, a bit of freezing wind refreshing the room.

__

"Shh, others are asleep," John told the owl and stroked his wing.

__

Henry hooted anyway, and Carl startledly sat up, eyes wide with fear.

__

"John?" he hissed when he made out the silhouette of his friend. "What are you doing?"

__

"Sorry mate, got an owl…"

__

"At this time of night? Why?"

__

"No idea. Go to sleep, it's alright, Carl, sorry for waking you up," John said apologetically. Given that Carl had nightmares, he didn't want to give him more fright than he could be already experiencing.

__

"It's fine, it's not your fault someone else doesn't understand people want to sleep in peace," Carl said, turning away from the window and pulling the sheets over his head.

__

John put Henry on his pillow when he noticed he had a bit of parchment tied to his leg. He went back under the moon rays of his window to read it.

__

Library. Could be dangerous.  
SH

__

John read it again. Was he serious? Couldn't it wait until morning if he wanted help with an essay he procrastinated on? Honestly, Sherlock was brilliant and one of the smartest people in the room, usually - but he could be so lazy!

__

Even though John was aware of the risks this friendship with Sherlock brought when it came to their adventures, he couldn't resist the adrenaline that came along, the excitement.

__

That's why he found himself changing into trousers and sweater, leaving for the darkness-surrounded castle five minutes later, carrying Henry out in the process.

__

~

__

Sherlock registered footsteps of the Gryffindor boy seven minutes and forty-eight seconds after he sent John's owl to him.

__

Just when John rounded the corner to get to the nearest staircase that led directly to the library, Sherlock snatched him into the shadows, hand over mouth to prevent him from waking up the whole of Hogwarts.

__

"It's me, stop the fuss," Sherlock whispered into his ear when John struggled against him.

__

John immediately stopped, eyes still wide with shock, slowly turning to face the taller Ravenclaw.

__

"Are you mad?! You scared the living daylight out of me!" he hissed, at which Sherlock discreetly put a hand over his mouth.

__

"It's night anyway," Sherlock said, "it doesn't matter, we have much more important things to investigate. Let's go."

__

John buried his face in his hands for a second before following his friend across the corridor.

__

"What's so important you have to wake me up in the middle of the night?"

__

"If you'd be less vocal, that would be essential," Sherlock turned to John, staring him down. "I want to get into the restricted section."

__

"You want to - Sherlock, you realise First Years are prohibited from entering that section?" John couldn't believe Sherlock would think of breaking the school rules. Professor McGonagall was crystal clear that any disruption of the rules would result in losing House Points, and he certainly didn't want to drag Gryffindor down. And also Professor McGonagall was scary when angry (she once told off a pair of girls in Transfiguration and that frightened about everyone in the room, even though her delivery was calm and collected).

__

"John, do keep up, that's exactly why I want to go there," Sherlock said, the excitement in his voice rising a little. "Rules are dull, and are meant to be broken. Where would the fun be otherwise?"

__

"You're mad," John sighed, coming to a halt at the next corner just behind Sherlock.

__

"And yet you still came, just like last time," Sherlock said smugly, checking the corridor for Prefects. No one in sight. He gestured John to come forward and they slipped into the library as quietly as possible.

__

"I don't think it's a good idea, Sherlock," John whispered, crouching alongside the bookshelves as they made their way to the forbidden section.

__

Sherlock ignored him, the only sign of his acknowledgement that the Gryffindor was there was that he put his index finger to his lips so John would be silent.

__

Listening intently, the two boys soon found themselves in front of the locked door leading to the restricted section. Sherlock pulled out his wand and whispered 'Alohomora' and unlocked it.

__

The doors screeched as John pulled them back; hopefully no one heard that. Sherlock treaded carefully on the floor, the wooden tiles could squeak at times and it would be inconvenient to have someone discover them now in the heat if the moment.

__

The shining full moon outside was so bright that they didn't need to use lightning of any sort to get by. Sherlock examined the shelves with the utmost interest, fingers trailing backs of books ever so tenderly. John, on the other hand, nervously hung around, ears pierced for any sound that would indicate they were discovered.

__

Sherlock pulled out a thick book with black leather cover, strange silvery marks decorating it. He hurried to the window. John's curiosity got the better of him and he peered over the Ravenclaw's shoulder to see what was on the mysterious pages.

__

"Shall we open it?" Sherlock breathed expectedly.

__

"I don't know, Sherlock," the Gryffindor said uneasily. What if they'd get cursed? "We should leave."

__

"Oh please, this is better than that secret room we were in before Christmas," he said, his face blank but John could feel how impatient he was.

__

"I'd switch places at any time," John said uncomfortably.

__

"Don't be dull, John, imagine what kind of knowledge lies in these pages, this ink! We could become masters in any subject if that were the case, do you know what that would be like? We become more powerful than Merlin, even."

__

John groaned (because frankly, this wasn't the greatest idea) but Sherlock didn't wait for his approval anymore and pried open the tome. Both boys held their breaths, not knowing what to expect.

__

And…

__

Nothing happened. Not for the first thirty seconds.

__

Sherlock waited exasperatedly, John at his side. He flipped right and left, unable to understand the script due to it being written in complete gibberish.

__

And then, the book closed itself on his hand and didn't let go.

__

Sherlock jolted backwards, tripping over the chair from sheer shock and falling on the ground, flailing his hand around in hopes of shaking the tome off, but to no avail.

__

"John, help me!" he hissed as he struggled on the ground. If this happened, say, during Transfiguration or Defense Against the Dark Arts class and a teacher was present to easily diffuse the situation, the whole ordeal would be funny - unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

__

John was aghast, and at first he wasn't sure how to react. He desperately circled around Sherlock, his mind racing for solution.

__

The book moved up Sherlock's hand, and both boys knew that it was because it started eating away at his fingers.

__

"John!" Sherlock looked at the horrified blond boy fearfully. "Use your wand for God's sake!"

__

That seemed to snap John out shock, he took out his wand and yelled, "FLIPPENDO MAXIMA!" at the aggressive tome.

__

The effect was immediate and the book flew across the restricted section with such force a page fell out, but the book slurped it up as it regained consciousness and prepared to attack again.

__

"Wingardium Leviosa!" John aimed at the book. It flew up, helpless against the charm. The Gryffindor dashed to the cursed book, shut it closed and put it back where it belonged.

__

John fell on his knees, breath heavy. This was too much adrenaline to deal with at one in the morning. He frantically turned to Sherlock when he remembered he wasn't alone in the section, the Ravenclaw holding his injured hand.

__

"Are you okay? What was that?"

__

"I wasn't exactly able to read the cover, was I?" Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

__

"Gosh, okay, sorry, just calm down and show me your hand," John said shakily. Sherlock involuntarily gave showed him his hand, flinching when John touched the irritated skin. "It's swelling up, Sherlock!"

__

Indeed, blisters appeared one by one on the boy's soft skin, each getting larger and larger within seconds.

__

"We have to go to the hospital wing," John said firmly, his nerves back on track. Sherlock, who was focusing on staying in control of the pain spreading in his arm, nodded and didn't object when John took him by the healthy arm and led him out of the library. He made sure to lock the doors again so the librarian wouldn't get suspicious.

__

The trouble began on the stairs. The peaceful and dreamy castle and its ambient atmosphere were disrupted not by solely the two First Years breaking school rules, but also by the school's caretaker Filch and his despicable (as described by the students) cat, Mrs. Norris.

__

It was a well-known fact that Filch waged war on the students, and they reciprocated the feelings of hatred just as much, so John and Sherlock were well aware that he wouldn't soften up on them for such a trifle as having magical blisters wreck your hand.

__

John darted back with Sherlock the moment he heard Mrs. Norris meow. For some reason, his intuition told him that the cat just knew.

__

John stuffed them both in a broom closet nearby and shut the door until there was only a tiny dent through which he could see the corridor.

__

"Damn the cat!" John muttered under his breath, the animal walking by as though it were taking a stroll on the beach, taking its time to locate the trespassers.

__

"We have to create a distraction," Sherlock said in between breaths. The blisters felt very, very hot.

__

"I'm trying to think of one, just hold on a second!" John said.

__

The distraction came by itself that very moment, however.

__

Peeves the Poltergeist swept down the ceiling of the corridor, mischievously giggling to himself. He was the second most insufferable being in Hogwarts right after Filch and he liked to make his and the students' lives miserable. Mrs. Norris hissed and bent her back when she saw Peeves floating above her.

__

And sure enough, he dropped a porcelain vase he acquired elsewhere at the cat, who narrowly escaped the pristine china and ran away to call her master to deal with the Poltergeist.

__

Peeves sang an awful tune and threw a few more vases at the walls before floating down by one story again and the boys were free to leave the closet.

__

John practically dragged Sherlock now, but he still relied on the Ravenclaw on giving him proper directions on which stairs to take.

__

They narrowly missed Filch on their way down on the First Floor, but he was preoccupied by talking to himself about how Peeves will one-hundred percent get fired for this prank of his to notice the First Years rushing past him.

__

By the time they got to the Hospital Wing, Sherlock's hand had swollen up quite nicely and resembled a balloon rather than part of a limb.

__

Madam Pomfrey, to their relief, didn't ask any questions upon admitting the Ravenclaw. She only ever disapprovingly told Sherlock off for wanting to leave and prohibited him from doing so for the rest of the night and forced him into eating hot chocolate.

__

She agreed on letting John stay after politely asking - he saw it fit since Sherlock was his friend and that's what friends do.

__

He knew Sherlock wouldn't admit it, but he was scared when the book attempted to devour his hand, John could tell - it didn't take a genius to see that. The Ravenclaw was more reserved than he would normally be, and he finished his chocolate without complaining.

__

John slept in a bed next to Sherlock's. Just as he was being absorbed by the realm of dreams, he heard him whisper three simple words: "Thank you, John."

__

~

__

Madam Pomfrey reluctantly let Sherlock leave the Hospital Wing the next morning, though she sent him off with a giant piece of chocolate to eat and appointed John to make sure he finished the whole thing.

__

The boys walked in silence, bumping into fellow students along the way, some of them sped up when they saw Sherlock, and others whispered. John stared at them as hard as he could, telepathically telling them off, but he obviously wasn't a psychic.

__

"So…" John didn't exactly know what to say. Sherlock acted cooly, his face was blank and didn't display any emotions - he was back to his usual collected self. He managed to stay calm yesterday, but his expression alone wouldn't allow for knowing something had happened if it weren't for his bandaged arm.

__

"Let's not wander into the restricted section without translator goggles, shall we?" he said, waiting for Sherlock's response.

__

Sherlock smirked at that comment, nodding. "I agree, this was quite boring in the end - I heard some books allow you to communicate with spirits, but Dumbledore must've taken steps to prevent students reading such material."

__

"We're not breaking into the Headmaster's office," John grabbed the Ravenclaw by the robes.

__

"Of course not," Sherlock said, not really listening to him. He stopped in the middle of the stairs before they parted ways, handling John half of his chocolate. "Take it, I won't eat it all."

__

John accepted the yummy treat and waved him a goodbye. "I'll see you at Potions!"

__

Sherlock waved back, the stairs moving to the left, then right, then left again, until he eventually reached the Ravenclaw Common Room,where he was immediately taken aside by Mycroft.

__

"Good morning, brother-dear," he said, his voice still groggy with sleep, though he changed into his school clothes.

__

Sherlock automatically rolled his eyes. "It's no good seeing you, is it?"

__

"Care to tell me where you've been? I haven't seen you leave the Common Room." Sherlock discreetly hid his bandaged arm in his sleeve.

__

"I went to the Great Hall to have breakfast," Sherlock deadpanned, trying to get past his older brother unsuccessfully.

__

"I wasn't aware you changed your eating habits and don't need to be dragged there anymore," Mycroft grabbed him by the shoulder. "Or are you hiding something from me?"

__

"Oh, you mean you don't know already with how nosy you are?" Sherlock sneered at him, shrugging him off. "Shame, you're getting old."

__

Mycroft didn't follow him into his dorm room.

__

~

__

Later in the day, John noticed that not only Carl, but also other classmates seemed tired and exhausted. This mood was accompanied by yawns and dark circles under their eyes which he could match, but for different reasons.

__

"Did you sleep okay?" John asked his dorm-mate when everyone else was out of earshot.

__

"Yeah, don't worry," Carl gave him a weak smile. "What about that weird letter you got? Who was that from?"

__

"Sherlock, he uhm… He needed help with his essay," John lied. He thought it would be better not to spread his nightly whereabouts in the corridors, not in Hogwarts. People had a tendency to gossip frequently, he didn't need Professor McGonagall deck him points.

__

"Did he? But he's like, the smartest person in the room," Carl said, confused. "I thought he never needed help with anything."

__

"Yeah about that… It was for - for Astronomy - he loathes the subject," John said. "Don't tell him I told you, but he doesn't know anything about the solar system. I'm sure he doesn't know how many planets there are."

__

"It's nine, right?"

__

"Yes."

__

"Oh, good, I got it right on the test!" Carl smiled, satisfied with himself.

__

They walked into History of Magic classroom where they were welcomed by the sobs of a Slytherin girl. Her friend from Hufflepuff who held her around the shoulders tried to cheer her up.

__

"I'm sure he'll pop up soon," she said soothingly. "Bunnies sometimes do that, you know? They hop somewhere where they're not supposed to be but they come back."

__

"What's wrong?" John asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

__

"Jane lost her bunny last night and we weren't able to find it yet," the Hufflepuff said, Jane sobbing even harder. "It was a gift from her grandpa."

__

"I know who could help you find it," John blurted out without thinking. He regretted speaking out loud, but he had the girls' attention so he couldn't back out now. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't kill him for this.

__

~

__

"I am supposed to find a bunny?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John when he told him the news that he was the detective in charge.

__

"Yes," John said, sitting down next to him in the library - the normal, student-friendly section.

__

"No."

__

"What do you mean 'no'? I promised we would help her!" John said, slamming down his Charms book.

__

"You promised that," Sherlock pointed out, turning a page in his Potions book. He wasn't exactly happy with it either and pushed it aside. "This is rubbish."

__

"Sherlock, this is a nice opportunity to show people that your deduction skills are helpful and not creepy," John said. He was adamant to convince Sherlock to find the bunny. Plus, if they were to start another adventure, he wanted something calm for a change. Bunnies are perfect for that, aren't they?

__

"John, it's a bunny," Sherlock yawned, looking the Gryffindor over judgingly. "There's nothing exciting about the animal. It gets frightened easily, it hopps, it sleeps - it's a fluffy cloud of nothingness! Besides, if it didn't accidentally jump off the stairs I'm sure it was captured by one of the bigger owls that roam around. Boring."

__

"Look, I see your point," John said, tapping on his parchment with dry quill. "I've thought of that too, but I still made a promise. Can you at least give it a shot before writing it off completely? Please?"

__

John gave Sherlock the puppy-eye stare, lips pouting and hands clasped together.

__

"Really, John?" the Ravenclaw looked at him disapprovingly.

__

"Pretty please?"

__

A pause. A sigh. "Fine. But only because it's less boring than Potion of Forgetfulness at the moment."

__

~

__

"So when was the last time you saw your bunny?" John asked, Sherlock standing next to him in the Great Hall near the Slytherin table.

__

"Last afternoon before we went to have dinner," Jane said, tears forming in her eyes. "And then… I came back and Lancelot was gone. I turned the whole room upside down, but he was nowhere to be seen."

__

Sherlock groaned and John promptly stomped on his feet to shut him up.

__

"Go on, he just didn't get a lot of sleep," John said, smiling.

__

"Well, the whole House looked over the dungeons, but it's as if Lancelot just vanished into thin air," Jane said, picking at her food with a fork.

__

"Couldn't a cat scare him away?"

__

"He had a Protection Charm put on him," Jane explained. "But thinking about it, he may have been taken by something."

__

"Who would want to take your bunny?"

__

"Not who, but what." Jane had that same look Carl had had the night before, her eyes drifted away and the circles under her eyes darkened considerably. "I've been hearing strange noises lately. Ever since I came back from the break, I mean. It always wakes me up in the middle of the night, but as soon as I sit up the sounds are gone. I think that something haunts the dorms and that it may have taken Lancelot."

__

John felt Sherlock's eye roll from behind him, but John thought it suspicious. Carl had nightmares and also woke up to strange sounds (if it weren't Henry that flew in after midnight, that is).

__

"Will you find him?" Jane asked with her big brown eyes. "I've got him as a birthday present from my grandpa, he's the last thing he gave me before going missing in October."

__

John looked at Sherlock, who remained I different throughout the whole conversation. He met John's eyes and nodded.

__

"We'll do our best to find Lancelot," John assured her, and she managed to smile at the two of them.

__

~

__

"You changed your mind." It was a statement. John walked next to Sherlock up the stairs, Peeves somewhere above them throwing water-filled balloons at students.

__

"Good observation," Sherlock said, skipping a step where it disappeared. John saw it too late and tripped, but Sherlock caught him by the arm. "Do keep up, John, we don't have time for such trifles."

__

"Sorry, didn't know my tripping was inconvenient for you," he said, killing the urge to put a leg in front of the Ravenclaw as soon as they got onto the first floor.

__

As they neared the library, John saw Carl and Jim having a conversation on the side. Jim also looked weary and teary-eyed. Carl didn't look much better compared to yesterday, but he was quite lively despite that.

__

"Hey guys!" John waved at the two happily. "How are you?" He grabbed Sherlock firmly by his injured hand, making sure he took him by the elbow as not to cause him pain. The Ravenclaw sighed and reluctantly stayed, muttering some sort of greeting.

__

"Hello, going to study for the Transfiguration test?" Carl swung his bag over his shoulder. "We've just finished."

__

"No, you did not," Sherlock said.

__

"Sorry?"

__

"You didn't even get inside the library," Sherlock continued as if he weren't interrupted at all. "You two left the Great Hall five minutes before us, and as quick as some people claim to be, it is impossible to get much done in such a short span of time. You backed out as we turned the corner, probably seeing someone else you wanted to avoid, so you ended up here. Judging by his reaction, it was his older sister from Slytherin who chose to ignore him after being sorted into Gryffindor, much different from the family tradition."

__

"How in the bloody hell do you know that? Jim hasn't told anyone besides me!" Carl frowned. He turned to Jim, whose back touched the cold wall behind, his scared, innocent eyes fixed on Sherlock.

__

"It isn't exactly a secret when you talk about it on every given opportunity," Sherlock replied, face blank. He looked at the scrunchy boy with red tie, saying, "Our families place a lot of stress on following the footsteps of our elder siblings, as it seems. I don't see why that should be the case, however. It's an atrocious way of living. You only deepen the shadow they cast on you."

__

Jim sniffed. John stood there like a glued chess piece, absolutely stunned by how fast this deduction proceeded and he wasn't prepared for it. Carl had the same reaction, as if he were hit by a brick wall. Tears ran down the little boy's cheeks, wetting his skin and farther saddening his already heartbroken face. He hastily grabbed his school bag and got out of there as fast as his legs allowed him to. Carl looked to John for some kind of explanation, but didn't wait around and (after scowling at Sherlock) ran after Jim.

__

Sherlock watched the whole ordeal with the same emotionless expression on his face. When Carl was gone, he turned on his heels and walked into the library as if nothing happened.

__

"What the hell was that?!" John asked after the initial shock wore off. He was immediately scolded by the librarian, so he had to conceal his confusion, perplexed. "How did you-"

__

A groan. "You already know how. I observed. Funny. I wonder how it must be like in your little brains." Sherlock stared at him from across the table, the silver eyes analysing John with interest.

__

John opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. There were so many things he wanted - needed - to say at once.

__

The Gryffindor took a long, deep breath. "Sherlock - Jim was hurt by what you said," John explained, talking calmly. "It was really insensitive."

__

"John, I've said it before, and I don't want to repeat myself, although I have to due to your apparent memory loss - I tell the truth. Besides, I don't see why he should feel bad for being in Gryffindor, clearly he's been infatuated by his family's opinion of what is right and what is not."

__

"Listen, I know you think differently, but there are better ways to say such things," John said, hoping to get some sense into his friend. He also graciously ignored the insult Sherlock threw at him.

__

"Yes, and you're repeating yourself too," Sherlock said. He turned a page in his Charms book, his black curls falling over his eyes.

__

The Gryffindor leaned back in his chair, watching the other boy read. He was smart, but only when it came to tangible knowledge of magic and science. Social situations were as distant to him as the solar system, and John had to do something about it.

__

Just as he was to argue some more, Greg came rushing in, taking a seat next to Sherlock.

__

"Sorry I'm late," he said, breathing heavily. John noticed how his left sleeve was dripping with water.

__

"Peeves," said both John and Sherlock aloud at the same time. Greg gave them a weird look.

__

Catching up, are you? Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

__

Shut up. John rolled his eyes, while Greg looked from one to the other, not having a clue what he'd just witnessed.

__

"If you two are done doing the weird squinting, can we get to studying? I still don't know how to do the Mending Charm properly."

__

John ripped his Potion essay in half in order to let the steam out. He let the pieces fall down on the table, deserving another raised eyebrow from Sherlock who seemed very bored otherwise, and he prompted Greg to try the spell.

__

The Hufflepuff took out his wand and pointed and the shredded parchment.

__

"Papyrus Reparo!" he shouted, the pieces twitching and then levitating up in the air to mend themselves into one coherent mass again.

__

"Not bad," John said, checking the parchment for any defects. There were a few tiny holes in the paper, but Greg cast the spell nicely and effectively. A little more practise and it will be perfect.

__

But, much to Greg's dismay, Sherlock snorted. "Ay, seems like our genius has something to say about it. C'mon, tell me what I'm doing wrong."

__

"First of all, your wand movement is off," Sherlock said, his wand in his left hand. He drew an imaginary clockwise spiral in the air. "Second, your pronunciation is terrible and your accent takes its toll as well, no offense."

__

It was John now who snorted.

__

"What d'you mean my accent-"

__

"All of the spells we use have a Latin root," Sherlock continued. "And Greek, for that matter, and they should be pronounced as such for a stronger effect. But since we're in Britain and English is a Germanic language that evolved quite differently from the rest, it's understandable it got altered over the centuries."

__

Greg looked from John to Sherlock and back. "I've no clue what he's just said."

__

John shrugged, he was exhausted just being in the library surrounded by the weight of knowledge around them.

__

"Well, since linguistics can't seem to entertain your funny little brains, I shall be more direct - you got the Papyrus bit right, but Reparo has stress on the second syllable."

__

He pointed his wand at John's essay and pronounced the spell correctly, resulting in a brand new-looking paper, John's handwriting untouched and unharmed.

__

"You weren't so stoked up about linguistics yesterday, were you?" John joked mischievously, which deflated Sherlock's ego. His cheeks turned pink and he rather buried himself in his Transfiguration notes than showing his smug grin.

__

"What are you talking about? What did I miss?" asked Greg upon seeing how effective John's tactic was. So he decided to tell him about their short adventure during the night. At first he didn't believe him, but when John told him the details, he couldn't contain his laughter.

__

"Idiots," Sherlock muttered from behind the book, though not offended.

__

"Smart-ass," John said, giggling.

__

But what was enough was enough, and Miss Pince threw them out mercilessly for disrupting the sacred silence of the library.

__

The three decided to call it a day and just return back to their Common Rooms. Greg skipped down to the Basement happily, encouraged by his more or less successful Mending Spell and tale about Sherlock getting chewed on by a book.

__

"What are we going to do about Lancelot?" asked John as they were about to part ways.

__

"We have to go the crime scene itself," Sherlock said. "It would be the best to have a look at it first-hand. People tend to overlook many details and it leaves you with an incomplete picture of the case."

__

"You're talking like a proper detective," John laughed, but Sherlock was serious about it.

__

"I'll send you an owl when to meet me," he said, turning on his heel and leaving for the Ravenclaw Tower.

__

John climbed the stairs to his Common Room, but as he approached the Fat Lady, an unnerving sight greeted him. An owl perched itself on the railing not too far from the painting, and from its beak and below it were clumps of grey, fluffy fur.

__

~

__

Jane took the news of her bunny being devoured by a school owl bravely. John and Sherlock let her know that same day after dinner; she confirmed that the fur was likely Lancelot’s. She thanked both boys for their willingness to help her and then retreated to the Slytherin dungeons.

__

"Poor Jane," John sighed while climbing the stairs. "I wish we found the poor animal sooner. Do you think it suffered?"

__

"Most likely," Sherlock said. "Owls are predators, they attack from above and-"

__

"Yeah alright, he suffered," John said, not wanting to hear the morbid details. "I’ll see you later. Thanks for being down to help, though."

__

Sherlock nodded and wished John a good night. He turned left and his legs automatically picked themselves up, one after the other while his mind wandered off. He secretly regretted the case was gone. Finally, something less mundane offered itself for his deduction skills to analyse, but it had to fail him. Why did life have be so boring?

__

Once in the dorms, he slouched to his bed, falling down dramatically but he stayed awake even after his dorm mates turned the lights off. In his memory he returned back to the library and his conversation he had had with John over Moriarty.

__

Really, he didn’t understand what the fuss was about. Facing the facts was easier than lying to him that it would be 'alright', as that dorm-mate of John's was always telling him. Sherlock saw no use in it. Jim Moriarty was a scared child developing an inferiority complex, and he didn’t listen to anyone but his older sister, it was obvious. Powers was wasting his time, and John too by trying to scold Sherlock. Facts were never changing, emotions weren’t - and Sherlock will take the first over the latter any day.

__

~

__

Easter came and went by pretty fast. The exams after it were tougher than the Christmas ones, but John and Greg both managed to get good grades. Sherlock did too, but Astronomy simply tortured his brain.

__

John and Sherlock still managed to sneak out into the castle in the middle of the night, though. Sherlock liked the prospect of discovering new secret rooms above the level of dungeons (they became rather dull after visiting them few times a week) and John liked to tag along with his genius friend in case he got in trouble.

__

They actually avoided Filch and Mrs. Norris excellently now, Sherlock was able to tell when the cat was nearby (her long fur got on every surface, oftentimes in smallish clumps). Peeves and the Prefects, on the other hand, were a little tougher to get away from. The two had Mycroft on them a few times, the older Holmes even abducted John every now and then to inquire about his… hobbies, as he called it now. John, thankfully, knew how to pull a poker face due to his experience with playing cards against Mike and Carl, so Mycroft couldn't get anything out of him.

__

But as it is, they were bound to mess up sooner or later.

__

Shortly before June when the weather was warmer and the nature surrounding Hogwarts bloomed, the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw met up again at their usual spot near the stairs on the Fifth Floor.

__

"Where to today?" asked John amicably, keeping his voice low.

__

"I have a place in mind," Sherlock said and lead the way downstairs.

__

The two boys made it to the Ground Floor, not a soul in sight. And not even a ghost. They sometimes stalked alongside John and Sherlock, but when Peeves emerged they turned around faster than Professor McGonagall when someone was talking in her class.

__

Sherlock turned in the direction of the dungeons, and John had an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

__

"Don't tell me you're going to go back to that illusion room," John tugged at the Ravenclaw's sleeve. "You said it was dull, remember?"

__

"You're being dull," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, we're going to check out the rest of the dungeons. Apparently there may be a torture room somewhere down."

__

John's expression, if it were visible, would be horrified. His head said 'run', but his instinct held him there right next to Sherlock.

__

As they progressed lower and lower, they temperature dropped, and John was glad he took his jacket. Suddenly, they heard footsteps, and Sherlock pushed John under a dark arch nearby to hide from a Slytherin Prefect.

__

The Prefect was a girl John didn't recognise, and she emitted a fearful presence. She checked the corridor carefully before walking off, but to their luck, she didn't find out Sherlock and John were there, but it was a close call.

__

"Hurry up, John!" Sherlock whispered to the Gryffindor who found it difficult to walk silently if he had to run since Sherlock's legs were so damn long.

__

They passed the wet southern wall (John sighed in relief when Sherlock didn't pay attention to it) and delved deeper into the dungeons. John had no idea they were so big, he always imagined it ended somewhere at the end of their Potions classroom and that's it. Yes, they did explore the grounds a few times with Sherlock, but now they went farther than anticipated.

__

Cold breeze brushed against their soft cheeks as they entered a passage on their right as they entered a round room with five options to choose from.

__

"Do you know where we're going, Sherlock?" John asked, growing more concerned with where the Ravenclaw was leading them.

__

"I had a chance to explore the other four passages briefly during breaks today," Sherlock explained. He talked normally, he was sure they were out of anyone's earshot. "Nothing exceptional, just storage passages for different items. Although I think some of them should be restored, mould can be hard to get rid of."

__

"So what d'you think is down this way?"

__

"Could be a torture room from the eleventh century - never used, unfortunately, just for decorative purposes - or perhaps a trial room."

__

"A trial room?" John had never heard of such thing before.

__

"They were used for minor competitions centuries back," Sherlock said, his eyes practically gleaming with excitement. "Students would hunt a collectible set by the Professor and gather points. It was banished, however, due to the death rates."

__

"Death - what? People died down here? Is that why there are so many ghosts?"

__

"Don't be absurd, John, there'd be more than that," Sherlock said casually.

__

John scanned the moist dark walls at either side. He half expected something to jump them at any moment, and Sherlock's commentary didn't ease his anxious mind.

__

But then, out of the blue (or black in this case, it was after all underground) the light breeze changed into a string wind, blowing against the boys with immense strength.

__

John clung to Sherlock, the wind getting stronger and stronger, his feet slipping. Their bodies were too small and thin to resist this, and they were both blown back to the start of the passage,landing on their butt's for soft landing. By some miracle they were unharmed.

__

The torches lightning the passageway were put out by the wind, thin lines of smoke slithering upwards in the damp air.

__

"I think something doesn't want us down there," John said, dusting his trousers. Sherlock's eyes flickered all over the blackness before them and the void stared back.

__

"There must be something, then," said Sherlock, sprinting into the passage once more. The wind blew immediately and he was thrown back with such force he did a barrel roll on the ground before stopping.

__

"Sherlock, it's not a good idea to play with this…. Whatever it is in the dungeons," John said, helping him stand. The echo of the wind sounded throughout the walls and corridors.

__

"We can't give up now, John," Sherlock said, taking out his wand. He warily tiptoed to the entrance arch of the passageway.

__

"Yeah? And what are you going to do, stab the wind?" John said impatiently. He had enough of this damp madness for one night. His gut feeling said they should get out, now, and he was willing to take the chance. "Listen, we can get here some other time when we actually know how to cast proper spells, don't you think?"

__

"Are you scared?" Sherlock looked the Gryffindor over with his silver eyes.

__

"Yeah, so what?" John growled in defense. "I don't have a good feeling about this, Sherlock. Please, let's get back before some Prefect catches us!"

__

Sherlock considered him for a moment,but his curiosity got the better of him and he charged at the void again, only to be blown back. He landed on his back, the air knocked out of his lungs.

__

"Okay, fine! We'll go back. Fair point," Sherlock breathed, John at his side. He helped him get up, and he reluctantly went with John. Every step took them farther away from this secret corridor, and he hated it. Finally something other than homework to focus on and yet he doesn't have the chance to go on and reveal its secrets.

__

The two didn't make it that far. As though she were a ghost, the Prefect girl appeared in front of them again, John dragging Sherlock to the side.

__

"Why is she here again?" John whispered, praying that she would walk past like she did before.

__

"No wonder she's a Prefect, she's just as tedious and insufferable as Mycroft," Sherlock hissed. She passed them, but she stopped occasionally and inspected every bit of the corridor that seemed suspicious to her.

__

They slipped away after the distance between them and the Prefect was large enough, and basically sprinted all the way back until they were back on the Potions corridor.

__

"That was close," John said, daring to speak normally. He flinched when something ahead of them crashed loudly. "God damnit, I just want to go to sleep!"

__

But Sherlock, clearly agitated for some unknown, insane reason, grabbed him and they went to investigate the source of the sound.

__

It came from Professor Slughorn's cupboard next to the Potions classroom. Someone was inside, but by the sound of it, they weren't particularly gentle with the items in there.

__

John and Sherlock drew closer, holding their breaths. There was no light inside the cupboard, but Sherlock jerked the doors fully open anyway.

__

"Professor Slughorn?" he called out, wand at his disposal. What he didn't quite count on was that the unknown visitor would charge at him, pushing him to the ground and disappearing. John attempted to seize the mysterious figure, but they were bigger and faster and got away quickly. He only managed to tear a part of his sleeve away which stayed in his hand.

__

"Alright, that's it, I had enough for today," John said grumpily. Not only did that whole ordeal scare the living daylight out of him, he felt the tiredness creep up on him as well. And, this bust was loud and surely drew attention of the Prefect girl. "We should really get back to our dorms now. And quietly."

__

"You should've thought about that earlier," said a voice behind them. It was the Prefect.

__

~

__

John and Sherlock stood like stone statues in Professor McGonagall's office. Professor Flitwick was present, too.

__

"What on EARTH were you thinking? Both of you?" she said, furious. She wore a night cap that overhung on one side. "I would quite understand if it were two Gryffindors named Potter and Black, but someone from Ravenclaw like you, Mr. Holmes, should know better than to wander off at night. You too, Watson. I would have never guessed you participated in such activities."

__

"We're sorry for breaking the school rules," John said, eyes on his shoes. He was genuinely sorry - and he felt bad for waking his Professors up.

__

"We'll it's a little too late for it, isn't it?" McGonagall said, he lips white and pressed into a thin line. "Ten points from Gryffindor for roaming around the school at night."

__

"And ten from Ravenclaw as well," yawned Professor Flitwick. John could see he didn't want to be nowhere near Professor McGonagall right now. He wasn't totally sure whether Professor Flitwick even paid attention, though - he looked like he slept with his eyes open.

__

"What were you doing down at the dungeons? And near Professor Slughorn's cupboard that was wide open, if you mind?"

__

"We didn't steal or anything!" John said frantically. The last thing he wanted them to think of him was as a thief. "We were coming back from… From the corridor and someone else was there already. There was no light, so we thought it was the Professor. But as soon as we approached it, the person ran out and-"

__

"You were found, yes," McGonagall said impatiently. "Do you happen to know that someone has been stealing from that cupboard for the last four months?"

__

"We really didn't steal!"

__

"The circumstances are not exactly in your favour, Mr. Watson," she reminded him.

__

"Then search our pockets," said Sherlock. It was the first time he spoke since getting caught. "It will prove we don't have anything on us."

__

McGonagall flicked her wand, but nothing came from their pockets. She sighed, definitely being done for the day.

__

"Even though you didn't steal, which Merlin forbid you even attempted, you'll get detention. Both of you. I will inform you of that later," the Professor said, dismissing them with a wave of her hand. "Back to your dormitories. And please - be more responsible in the future."

__

Outside McGonagall's office, the two boys could finally breathe. John came to realise he was still holding a torn piece of clothing in his hand. A yellow line on the rim lined the piece.

__

"Sherlock, it was a student," John said, showing him the cloth. Sherlock took it and inspected it with precision, as much as the darkness allowed him to.

__

"Definitely a Hufflepuff, but it's impossible to say what Year," the Ravenclaw said, thinking. "We can still catch him, though."

__

"How?"

__

Sherlock though for a moment, and they walked towards their Common Rooms.

__

"House Elves. They gather the clothes and wash them, a robe with a torn sleeve is bound to be found soon enough."

__

"Okay, but how do you get to a House Elf?" interested John, his legs heavy with exhaustion.

__

"I'll figure it out," said Sherlock and he disappeared upstairs to the Ravenclaw Tower.

__

~

__

John was enjoying lunch with Greg when blue-tied friend crashed between them.

__

"Gavin, I need you to help us," he said, looking through his bag.

__

Greg looked at John, baffled. "Gavin? And YOU need MY help? April Fool's day was over two months ago, Sherlock."

__

The Ravenclaw ignored him as usual and just handed him the torn piece of robe from John.

__

"What is this?"

__

John gave Greg a rundown of yesterday's action before Sherlock would get fussy over his 'incompetence'.

__

"We thought you could ask a House Elf whose robe is torn," John said. "And by that we can locate the thief."

__

"And how the hell would I ask an Elf about someone else's clothes?"

__

"You can say he's your friend," John suggested.

__

"Alright, I can try," he agreed.

__

"Really?"

__

"Yeah, you're my friends after all. Plus it's not like it will get me in danger, right?"

__

"Never say never," said John. He thanked him again, and poked Sherlock in the ribs to do so as well.

__

"Uh, yes, thank you for your help," he muttered.

__

And sure enough, by the end of the week Greg managed to convince a House Elf he was a friend of the robes' owner. His name was Anderson, a Third Year Hufflepuff. A rather crude looking guy.

__

Nevertheless, John and Sherlock both silently agreed what the next course of action was.

__

They reported their findings to Professor McGonagall after they fulfilled their detention duties under her supervision. She didn't want to believe them at first, but once they laid out the facts (Sherlock found more dirt on Anderson amidst final exams while John was stressing over Astronomy) she and Professor Slughorn confronted the Hufflepuff.

__

He denied it, naturally. But after they searched his stuff, they found all items that have gone missing in the last month. From what John had heard, Anderson still denied it, saying he had no clue how the ingredients got under his bed and that he never got near the cupboard in the first place.

__

But despite his appeal, he was disciplined by Professor Sprout and given extra detentions until the end of the year.

__

~

__

"Seems like our first official case is behind us," John joked as he sat down on the Hogwarts Express.

__

"A small case nonetheless," said Sherlock, dreamily gazing out of the window. "We could go back to that corridor next year if we're lucky."

__

"You didn't learn a thing, did you?" John laughed, but then he saw Sherlock was serious. "Oh god, okay. I'll worry about it in September."

__

Sherlock didn't reply, but he smirked into his reflection in the train window.

__

"Hey, maybe we could have a sleepover during summer?"

__

"A what?"

__

"A sleepover," John repeated, laughing at Sherlock's baffled expression. "It's what friends do - they invite each other over to their house and have fun."

__

"I'm not sure I'll be able to come," Sherlock said.

__

"Oh."

__

"But thanks for the invitation," he added as the train tugged towards London.

__

"Well, I'll be bugging you with owl post every now and then," John said. "Hey guys!"

__

He waved at Carl, Greg and Jim who joined the two (Carl sat next to John and avoided Sherlock's eyes and Greg just put his legs up) while Jim had no problem plopping down next to Sherlock. He did a complete turn since when John last saw him in the Gryffindor Common Room. He gave the Ravenclaw a strange giddy look, Sherlock pretended not to have seen it (or he just spaced out).

__

"Everything fine?" John asked the scrunchy boy.

__

"Oh, everything's just peachy, John," Jim winked at him.

__

And with that and the exams behind them, they all passed their First Year at Hogwarts, the unravelled mysteries waiting for next year to come.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is Jim so happy? :)  
> next chapter we jump back to '97


	4. Worries and Pies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, long time no see!  
> Chapters are planned to be updated monthly, so that gives me some time to prepare :)  
> also, thank you all for reading and the current 17 kudos and 5 bookmarks, I deeply appreciate them and they make me write even more! Please, if you have questions or you see a typo, let me know! any and all commemts are welcome! ^^  
> I also apologise to any hardcore potterheads if they find smt out of the line, I'd like to be more precise if you find smt inaccurate, so let me know, but I also don't have that much time to pinpoint everything in the books to take reference from due to my schedule now, but I will do my best :)  
> chapter published: 20.4.2020  
> word count: 6252

Harry woke up the next day before Ron and Hermione. Kreacher hasn't returned yet, which was a little discouraging and anxiety-inducing… But House Elves had proved to be quite resilient, at least Dobby did. 

He got up silently and left for the kitchen. He secretly hoped that Kreacher would be there, with Mundungus tied up to a chair, or a pipe, anything. The sooner they figured out who had the horcrux the better. But the kitchen was deserted as ever, to his disappointment. 

As quietly as he could, Harry grabbed the kettle and placed it over open flame to make tea. After all, tea seemed to be the solution in times of crisis like these. He went over yesterday’s meeting with the two men on Baker Street. He was thrilled that they agreed to help them, but he had no idea what to expect. 

He absent-mindedly pulled the kettle aside once it started whistling and he poured the boiling water into three porcelain cups. Somewhere in the house a door creaked, indicating that either Ron or Hermione had awoken. 

"Harry?" It was Hermione. She crept into the kitchen just as Harry sat down behind the table. “Are you alright?”

No, he wasn’t what she’d call 'alright' . Far from it. But he didn’t want to be snappy, everyone was on edge recently, he had no desire to start an argument now. 

"As alright as I can be," he offered her a weak smile, turning to his cup of hot tea. Hermione sheepishly scanned him from the doorway.

"Harry is it about-" 

"A little, yes," he cut her off hastily, not meeting her eyes. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop thinking about their friends and what they must be doing right now after they left. "But I’m worried about everyone. Besides Lupin and his message to get help from Sherlock Holmes we didn’t get anything, Hermione." 

Her tired eyes softened and she sat down next to him, patting him on the back reassuŕingly. "He has to lay low, you know. It was risky already he went to the wedding as it is. And since his family is, you know…" 

"Yeah, I guess," Harry said, his heart clenching at the idea that something worse may have happened in the meantime. "I just wish there was a way to get news from them all."   
"I do too," Hermione sighed. She made a surprised noise when she realised that a cup of tea awaited her as well. "Thank you, Harry!" She cautiously sipped some of the hot liquid. "But don’t worry, they surely are alright. Bad news tend to get to people sooner than the good, don’t they? A little bit of radio silence doesn’t mean something bad necessarily happened." 

"Yet." 

Hermione pressed her lips together and lowered her head to take a sip from her cup. Somewhere in the background there was an audible thump and an angry grumbling. Ron had awoken too. 

"Morning," he greeted them once he shuffled into the kitchen. He plopped down across the two, yawning. His hair was a mess, which proved to be enough of a distraction for Harry since he chuckled at the sight. "What?"

"You look awful," Harry smirked, yawning himself. Ron shot him a dirty look, but it was too early for his brain to come up with a witty comeback just yet, so he only stuck out his tongue at his friend, at which they both laughed. 

"Idiots," Hermione muttered under her breath, but she smiled nonetheless. For a while it felt like the start of a normal day, except it wasn’t. Even though it seemed that his friends finally eased up a little ever since arriving to Grimmauld Place number Twelve, Harry still felt the dread hanging up above their heads. 

And despite him not wanting his mind to wander there, he again started thinking about their Slytherin friend, Draco Malfoy. Who knew what happened after their hurried escape from the Burrow? He could only hope he was alright. He wished for it, desperately, and he would do anything to be able to see him right now. 

Before he descended into the madness of wishful thinking and what-ifs, a loud crack in the hallway suggested the arrival of a newcomer, or so it seemed. The muffled voice of someone restrained was filled in with Mrs. Black’s screeching as usual. 

Harry rushed outside, and to his relief, Kreacher was finally home - and Mundungus Fletcher with him. 

~

Sherlock stared across the living room at John whose head was leaning to the side on his hand, his naked feet put up in Sherlock’s chair that he drew closer. 

With furrowed brows he looked at the stack of newspapers that stood by the door. It was a mix of the Sun and the Daily Prophet, all issues from previous years, except for the very top one. Sherlock’s fingers wrapped around the thin paper sheets as he took it to the kitchen where the ceiling light was still on. He didn’t want to wake John up by flicking lights on in the living room anew. He threw the newspaper on the table, dancing to the fridge and he took out a whole milk. Sherlock poured himself a full glass, leaving the milk on the counter since he would refill it soon enough, and he skimmed through the news, his frown growing bigger as his eyes read on. 

"New Minister of Magic Elected" , "New Decrees Accepted by the Wizengamot", "Regulations Regarding Muggles To Be Decided" and so on. He snorted when he saw a picture of this supposed new 'Minister' - he didn’t kid anyone, he was just a puppet and either under the Imperius curse or he was really just a bigoted idiot. 

Sherlock continued reading the Daily Prophet with a mandatory eye roll starting every sentence (seriously, even First Years at Hogwarts are able to devise cleverer sentences), but his knuckles went white, the edges of the pages crumbling, when he saw the term 'mudblood' and 'thieves of magic' and 'subhuman' in one idiotic paragraph. He glanced at John’s armchair, its back illuminated by the yellow kitchen light hanging above Sherlock. 

There were people in the past equally as ignorant as those who ran the puppet show in the Wizarding World right now, equally as cruel, he dared say, who tried to hurt John. And oh, had Sherlock dealt with them…. He’d do it again without moment's hesitation, and John would do the same. Extermination of enemies didn’t work legally, however, so they’d have to come up with a better strategy if it came to the worst. 

He reached for the now empty glass and refilled it to the brim. He carefully sipped a little of the white liquid so that it wouldn’t spill all over the floor - God knows John would hate to clean that up - and he tucked the empty cartoon back in the fridge. The trashcan was too far away for him to throw it out. Besides, what would John yell at him for, then?

Sherlock picked up the Daily Prophet and giving it one last eye roll, he tore the paper apart into pieces. The sound woke John up, who groggily shifted in his armchair and yawned loudly. Sherlock offhandedly threw the clumps of would-be newspaper in the bin with the help of his wand before John got there. 

"Mornin'," John suppressed another yawn as he shuffled past Sherlock to make himself some coffee. 

"It’s midnight, John," Sherlock smiled, turning his head in his direction ever so slightly. "Don’t drink that coffee, I put poison in it." 

John spat the coffee out immediately into the sink, he was fully alert now. "You did WHAT?" He choked on the last bits of caffeine stuck in his throat. 

"Relax, I didn’t put anything in it," Sherlock smirked, scratching his head and yawning himself. "I’m just saving you an additional trip to the bathroom in four hours if you were to drink the whole cup." 

"Absolute, utter dickhead," John muttered angrily, emptying the mug of coffee and washing it with water before putting it away. "You could’ve just said it’s midnight, done. But no, you scare me into thinking I might become your next lab rat." 

John buried his face into his hands, sighing. Not that he wasn’t used to this, there have been worse instances where Sherlock used him for his experiments, but this was too an ungodly hour to give him a heart attack. 

"What were you doing, anyway?" John asked. "I heard you tearing something apart." 

"That was nothing," Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, though his blood boiled remembering the chosen words in one of the ignorant articles. He was aware that John was watching him, and oh, has he gotten good at reading Sherlock over the years. He fidgeted with the glass of milk on the table, finally gulping down the last bits, and he put it in the sink. 

John put a hand on his shoulder. "What is it, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock made it a point not to look at the trashcan, or in its general direction, but his eyes flicked there for a millisecond anyway. John noticed, and following his gaze he gave Sherlock a quizzical look and went to look in it. 

"I swear if it’s another rotten pumpkin stuffed in my unused sock-" 

"INCENDIO!" Sherlock shouted just as John was about to peek in the trash can. The bits of Daily Prophet were aflame, burning to ashes, but John didn’t know that. 

"Jesus! Try not to get the firefighters involved, will you?" 

Sherlock said nothing, although it was clear he couldn’t avoid explaining it at this point at all. John still peered into the flames, eyebrows raised. His eyes suddenly widened as epiphany hit him. 

"Oh. That."

"I thought that-" 

"I read it this morning, you git," John laughed bitterly, crossing his arms. "Remember? You were slouched on the couch in your Mind Palace working out how the hell Greyback found us and I had this delivered. Well, Mrs. Hudson had. I even read the titles out loud." 

"I wasn’t paying attention, obviously," Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"Well, thanks for the gesture," John gave him a long hug, yawning into Sherlock’s pyjamas. "But now I’m off to sleep, still got a couple hours. You’re free to join the slumber party any time." 

John slipped away from Sherlock, leaving an unwelcome cold creeping in where he was previously standing. Sherlock watched his figure get lost in the dark hallway leading to their bedroom, exhaling ever so slowly, his mind also slowing down after days of furious thinking. 

He slouched down on the couch in the living room, fingertips under his chin as he tried to relax a bit. He needed to file away all the new information Harry Potter had told them upon their visit to Baker Street the previous day. He didn’t have time yesterday because the encounter with Greyback was rather disturbing, especially to John, and today they went over the possibilities of where the horcruxes may have been. His informator unfortunately didn’t make it on time as he hoped, but that didn’t matter. Some things couldn’t be rushed, and they were only people, too. 

Opening his eyes to adjust to the darkness embalming him, he sat up, scratching his head. He felt blood rushing in his ears from the sudden shift, his Mind Palace at ease now that he made sense of everything. 

He shuffled towards the bedroom, exhaustion closing his eyes midway there. He was happy when he basically fell face down on his pillow next to John, who was snoring loudly from under a thin blanket. He shifted slightly at the motion of Sherlock slamming himself on the bed, but he remained sound asleep. 

Sherlock’s mind was emptying from the constant buzz and noise that seemed to be ever-so-present when he was awake. His breathing was starting to even out, and his conscious drifted into light sleep, deepening with every peaceful second. 

Until that peace was switched for a loud, obnoxious crash somewhere down in the hallway. 

Both John and Sherlock jolted awake at the sound but the shriek of Mrs. Hudson downstairs that followed prompted them out of the comfort of their bed immediately. 

John called after their beloved landlady, voice still raspy with sleep, Sherlock stumbling on the doorframe as he nonverbally called for his wand. They flew down the stairs in a matter of milliseconds, wands ready. 

"Boys! You’ve got another one!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, hands clasped over her heart. She had a hairnet over her head and those ridiculous hot pink slippers from her sister she’d gotten as a Christmas gift. 

Sherlock scanned the hallway for the disruptor and his eyes fell on a figure of a short man, tied up, accompanied by his homeless contact from a few days ago. She was grinning, satisfied with her work. 

"Mornin'," she said, giving the man, Mundungus Fletcher, a shove with her leg. The man twitched and glared at her, to no avail. "Apologies for the noise. Been troublesome, this guy, but got him anyway." 

John looked at Sherlock, who smirked and noted the success for later analysis for his section on why his Homeless Network was the best. Mrs. Hudson huffed something about Sherlock’s work ethic and left, used to this kind of action by now. 

Sherlock regarded the woman with a nice financial gain on her part, plus a few cigarettes. She left, content with her work, waving the three men a hearty goodbye. 

"Care to tell me what exactly I’ve woken up to?" said John’s voice, slightly less groggy now. Sherlock flicked his wand, the tied up man glaring at him now. He nodded to the ceiling, signalling John to follow him back upstairs. Mundungus followed them too, though levitating lazily mid-air. Neither John nor Sherlock were alert enough to care for the occasional bump against the stairs or walls and the grunts that accompanied them. 

"Mundungus Fletcher," Sherlock cleared his throat, sitting down in his chair. "Pleased to meet you." 

Fletcher huffed something incoherent into the piece of garment stuck in his mouth. He was seated in the Uncomfortable Chair no one ever wanted to sit on. He did not enjoy it. 

John returned from the kitchen, dressed, and with tea. He set three cups on a coffee table between them. Thoughtful as always. 

"I believe you have the most valuable information to give us," Sherlock said, eyes fixed on Fletcher. "It is in your best interest to answer our questions truthfully. Is that clear?" 

Mundungus gave him the raised eyebrow, shifting on the chair. His legs shot forwards, tied tightly together with a rope. He looked at Sherlock, then John. "Oh, right," Sherlock said, his wand motioning at Fletcher. The man’s eyes widened, but when the piece of clothing disappeared from his mouth, he seemed to have calmed down. 

"So you’re the guy I was supposed to visit?" Fletcher blurted out, his voice seeping with annoyance (and it was in itself annoying to listen to). 

"What do you mean 'supposed to' ?" John asked, brows furrowed. 

"Look, I had a weird day," Mundungus said, face tired. "I already told the kid everything I knew, I promise - well, I did…" 

"Get to the point, Fletcher," Sherlock said, running out of patience. God it was too early to deal with idiots. 

"If you untie me, I’ll get on with the story," Fletcher bargained. 

"What, and let you vanish into thin air like you’re used to?" 

"I have to take precautions, Mr….?" 

"Sherlock Holmes," the detective introduced himself. "And this is John Watson. Now, we’ll untie you once you tell us all the details. Do make it quick, the tea is getting cold." 

Fletcher must’ve sensed he wouldn’t get anywhere. He sighed, leaned into the chair and began speaking.

"So at first I thought that someone got pissed at me again for the faulty pair of astro glasses I was selling, you see," he said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Jinxes flying above my head every now and then. But then this hell-bent House Elf just appeared out of nowhere, stunning spells of his coming right at me, right? It was the one who served Blacks, so I just tried to brush him off, I sold most of the silverware anyway."

Sherlock’s gaze darkened for a second at the mention of the name Black, but he nodded to prompt Fletcher to continue. 

"But this time the creature was quite persistent," Fletcher said. "And he managed to knock drag me to the house. And there I was greeted by Harry Potter and his two angry friends." 

"Can’t imagine why," John snorted and Sherlock smirked, but he didn’t pry his eyes away from Fletcher. His clothes signalled that he was constantly changing locations, they were worn-out, he was materialistic and in debt with many people. Addicted to gambling, a pathological liar, but not a good one. Weak-willed, skittish, greedy, easy to intimidate. 

Mundungus glared at John, but dropped his gaze when his eyes linked with Sherlock’s steely irises. "Look, one of them is coming down anyway to fill you in, I heard them say so. The locket is long gone in the hands of this… unpleasant witch at the ministry. Umbridge, I think, was her name. She took it in exchange of not giving me a fine, that’s all." 

"Yes, and considering you haven’t been the most cautious with your whereabouts it is not really all that surprising you’ve been caught again by a House Elf," Sherlock said, rubbing his temples, "and a squib. No wonder you’re in debt, your business is not thought out at all." 

Fletcher scowled at him, unable to say anything. Sherlock caught John’s smirk before he gulped down the rest of his tea. "I am quite glad I decided to put my own network to track you down, surely you wouldn’t be so eager to join us by yourself." 

"Wouldn’t you like to know," Fletcher looked at the ground, then at his right hand. "These pesky kids put me under the Vow. They wanted to make sure you get a message. I was about to make my way here, when that squib caught me, Mr. Holmes. Though I’m insulted, I do keep my promises. And I don’t fancy death from breaking the Vow." 

It was now Sherlock who snorted. Fletcher seemed put out. 

"I told you everything I know, Mr. Holmes," Fletcher said, pleading. "I could get you a few deals as a compensation for the waking up." 

"Of course, we wouldn’t want you to be late to your illegal selling of two dragon eggs you keep minimised in the one pocket of your left side of the jacket," Sherlock purred, getting up from his chair. Fletcher seemed alarmed, gaping at the detective, but now words came out to defend himself. "No worries, it is not my ground to apprehend you. Thank you for stopping by." 

Mundungus was freed of the ropes seizing his body. He rubbed his wrists and looked at the tea on a small table in front of him. 

"That’s for our landlady," John said, yawning. "The door’s that way." Mundungus took the hint and shuffled outside, their eyes following him. 

"Your client is an undercover Auror, by the way," Sherlock called after him, but they heard no direct response, only some mumbling and the slam of the front door. A light 'pop' followed, indicating Fletcher had Disapparated. 

"What’s he selling?" John asked, rising from his armchair. He carried his empty cup into the sink. 

"Dragon eggs," Sherlock said, uninterested. "Too bad Lestrade will have another of these to report later."

"Not the wisest man to sell them right now." 

"Obviously." 

~

Harry moved under the Invisibility Cloak a lot faster when there weren’t two other pairs of feet stumping on your own. He carefully avoided muggles in the streets. Two times he almost crashed into people, but he narrowly avoided the collision. He’d never seen London from such angles as he did these past few days. 

After their little confrontation with Mundungus the day before, he fought his right to go to Baker Street alone. Well, someone would have to, they knew Mundungus had to oblige the Vow now, but just to retell everything without much delay. Hermione and Ron both objected to Harry going alone, saying they’d go instead, but Harry wanted to be alone for a while. He had to escape Grimmauld Place again, and this was more than welcome. Besides, it was his Cloak to take and be under in the first place. 

And with that, he set off to Baker Street at seven in the morning. 

He got there pretty quickly and he was surprised with himself that he managed to remember the way there as much as he did. That was partially thanks to Hermione, though. He had to admit, her cleverness was finally rubbing off on him. 

His heart and stomach did a small flip when he saw the shiny black doors of 221b Baker Street. Still under the Cloak, he waited until there were no muggles in sight or anyone on the outlook of the street. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the doorknob. Locked. 

Harry bit his lip, his mind suddenly racing furiously as what to do next. He looked around the street around again, his paranoia meter rising with every second. He knocked on the huge door as loud as he dared and waited. 

To his surprise, he didn’t have to wait long. The door sprung open ever so slightly, a quiet murmur inviting him in. He slithered through the gap inside, taking his Cloak off immediately. 

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes, we - oh," he said. An older lady with curly hair beamed at him in the hallway. 

"Harry, is it?" she asked, her smile growing when he nodded. "Oh, I heard so much about you! Come with me, the boys stormed out some time ago but they will be back soon, I think." 

Harry, unable to really process this, followed her into her small kitchen on the ground floor. She seemed prepared for his visit, biscuits on her table ready to be eaten and water in the kettle starting to boil. 

"I, uhm," Harry didn’t really know what to say. Thanks for having me? No. 

"You’re not of any trouble," said the lady as if she were reading his mind. "I’m Mrs. Hudson, by the way. Have a biscuit, Harry." 

He obliged. The biscuits were delicious, and the way she told him to eat them reminded him of Professor McGonagall. Times have been simpler back then. All that occupied his mind was Quidditch and… that sorry excuse of a woman, Umbridge.

Before he could descend any further into those loathing thoughts, Mrs. Hudson interrupted him. 

"Tea, dear?" 

"No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I’m okay," he politely declined. Mrs. Hudson waved a hand dismissively. 

"Nonsense, you can always drink tea," she said, putting a cup in front of him. She sat down opposite of him and arranged her flower vase to her liking. 

"Is there anything else I can get you?" she asked sweetly. Harry shook his head, saying the biscuits are enough and delicious. "Family recipe, my sisters and I used to have baking competitions when we were younger. You can guess whose were the best." 

She winked at him and Harry felt himself reciprocate her smile. Yes, in some ways she reminded him of Professor McGonagall too much, but she was soft spoken. Professor McGonagall was strict mostly, but she was in a place of authority and had to have her reputation held high in that regard. 

They sat in silence for a while until Harry finished his third biscuit. "You’re plenty worried, I can see that," said Mrs. Hudson. Harry’s eyes shot down on the tablecloth, not knowing how to respond. Only if she knew. 

The front door to the flat burst open, startling Harry out of his chair. His head whipped around, trying to make out the newcomers. It was Mr. Holmes and Watson. 

"See? Back already," Mrs. Hudson winked at him. She rose from her chair, shoes clanking against the wooden floor. She leaned into the hallway calling after her tenants. "Boys, Harry is here!" 

"Send him upstairs!" called a deep voice Harry recognised as Sherlock’s. 

Harry stood up immediately. "Thank you for the tea and biscuits, Mrs. Hudson." 

"Anytime, Harry, anytime," she said, hand under her chin. "I hope we’ll meet later too. God knows these two are rubbish at keeping me up with their cases." 

"Will do," Harry gave her a quick smile, taking two steps at a time to get to the flat upstairs. 

The doors were opened, welcoming him. He had a feeling his help would prefer them closed, so he did after stepping inside their living room. Sherlock Holmes was already seated in his black armchair, chin resting in his fingers, deep in thought. 

"Hello, Harry," John greeted him, rounding his armchair to shake his hand. "Can I get you anything?" 

"I’ve just finished Mrs. Hudson’s tea, thanks," Harry said, glancing around awkwardly. Being here, he suddenly didn’t know how to begin. Come to think of it, he practically didn’t give it much thought as to what he’ll tell the detectives. 

"Here, have a seat," John pointed at a chair with a cushion. "Did you get here alright? How are Hermione and Ron?" 

"He obviously got here 'alright', John, otherwise we’d have Death Eaters to fight," Sherlock suddenly interrupted, changing his position in his armchair to get a better look at Harry. 

"Smartass," John muttered, but he didn’t sound offended. 

"Well, moving past the sentiment, I think we should get the horcruxes cleared up first," Sherlock said, his mouth going off on the fast tangent. "So, tell us, Harry, what did Mundungus Fletcher do with the locket?" 

Harry took a sharp breath. "He sold it. Or rather, he had it taken away from him as a sort of bribe. The locket is now in the hands of Dolores Umbridge. She works for the Ministry." 

"Yes, she investigates muggleborns," Sherlock said, his face hardening momentarily. The man scratched his neck, scanning Harry over. "Quite the opportunist, if you ask me. It will be hard to get to her." 

"So you’ll help us get the locket back?" 

"I thought that was quite clear," Sherlock said dryly. Harry looked at his feet. It still felt surreal that they had an ally to help them. He couldn’t be sure enough. 

"Look, Harry," John said, gifting him a reassuring gaze, "we’re no strangers to this world - we’re wizards. We know what we agreed to, and we’re more than glad to help." 

"I… Thank you, really," Harry said, fidgeting on the chair. "Uhm, back to Umbridge - Hermione - she’s the smart one here -" 

"Obviously." 

"- she started thinking of ways to get inside the Ministry. We’d like your input too, of course." 

"Maybe we could get help from the inside," John suggested glancing at Sherlock. The detective shook his head. 

"That would be too risky, even for him," he said. "He’s got the best of both worlds, this would create more problems for him and therefore for us too. That is, if he wouldn’t flat out dismiss us." 

"We could still try asking Mycroft, you know," John persisted. "He’s your brother and he helped us before, and I’d say it may have been worse back then." 

Harry watched Sherlock roll his eyes and huff in this dramatic manner. "No. That would mean we owe him a favour." 

John rolled his eyes back. "Whatever. Harry, do you have any specifics as to what your plan is?" 

"No, we’ve only begun," Harry said. "But I also wanted to talk about our communication with you. Someone is watching Grimmauld Place most of the day, so it isn’t that easy to get out and return without proper planning." 

"Yes, and patronuses don’t really make for good conversationalists." 

"Exactly. Maybe we could use our House Elf, Kreacher, for that? He’s turned around since the whole Mundungus problem cleared up, he can be trusted." 

"Possible, but it may come with risks," Sherlock said, standing up and pacing around the room. Silence fell upon them again.   
"It’s logical someone put Death Eaters on watch despite their lack of knowledge where exactly you’re hiding," he said. "Possibly Snape, but since the house is in your possession now, you’re the Keeper and they have no means to discover you. They may hope but so far you three are in no danger. Did you see Fenrir Greyback guard the area?" 

Harry’s head snapped up hearing the name. Greyback was no joke, that man was a serious threat to anyone. His twisted nature has blossomed even more under Voldemort’s rule, if that were even possible. He was the reason why Lupin became a werewolf too.

"No," he swallowed. "None of us have seen him, thankfully. Have you?" 

"Yes," Sherlock replied as if they were discussing something trivial. "We’ve had the unfortunate luck to meet him, along with two Death Eaters and a small swarm of Dementors. He has a fashion for the dramas, I must admit."

"Yeah, finally someone who can stand a chance against you," John said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Sherlock paid him no attention. He stopped by the window, observing the street below. 

"Wait, what did Greyback want?" Harry asked, if a little disturbed by their lack of fear of Greyback. "Did he attack?" 

"He didn’t attack," John said and ran a hand through his hair. "Apparently Voldemort has an offer for us. To work for him or something. Don’t worry, we’d never do that." 

"He seemed to be aware of that too," Sherlock added and looked at them both. "Only his employer wishes to be patient with us." 

"He won’t be for long." 

"No, not at all."

"Do you think he’ll let Greyback come after you?" 

"Certainly," Sherlock said with a twinkle in his eyes. "We’re not too important for Voldemort to come here and kill us personally." 

"Wow," Harry breathed. "You’re one of the few people to actually say his name without flinching." 

"Why, yes. He’s not the worst wizard I’ve heard of. It’s about the people he surrounds himself with and his persuasion that makes him terrifying. It’s more about the psychology, really." 

"Sherlock, he’s pretty proficient in dark magic in any case you’ve forgotten," John deadpanned and put his right leg over his left. He rubbed his eyes and let out a sigh. If Sherlock heard him, he didn’t show it. "Anyway, you lot have all you need, Harry?" 

"Hm? Oh, yeah," he nodded. The Baker Street flat felt surreal at times. It didn’t look like a wizard den, they haven’t really flashed spells around for even the most seemingly mundane tasks - well, he wouldn’t know, he spent minimum time here. "Kreacher handles the cooking and he’s a lot more vigorous to do the cleaning too. We told him to take it easy, but he refused. He seems very happy at last. The place is slowly becoming a second home to us." 

"Well, I’m sure Mrs. Hudson is preparing a care package for you this very moment," Sherlock called from the window, smirking. 

"Her biscuits were delicious," Harry said truthfully. He would actually have another one… It held this familial taste he longed for from time to time, and Mrs. Hudson emitted this motherly attitude he grew up without. 

"He didn’t mean biscuits," John said, laughing. "She’ll pack you a whole dinner for you all, I bet." 

Harry’s eyes widened. "What? That’s not necessary." 

"She won’t have any of that. You’re too skinny for her liking. She constantly tries to overfeed us, she’s not going to turn away from another prey." 

Harry sighed. As if he hadn’t been too much trouble already. He looked at the clock hanging to his left next to the kitchen door. Quarter past nine. Surely Hermione and Ron were awake by now. Well, at least Hermione. Ron had taken up the opportunity to sleep for as long as possible, if he could. Unwillingly, his mind started playing with him, wandering to the topic of Draco Malfoy and what he may be doing this very moment. He must have looked distraught, because John got up and lightly shook him by the shoulder. 

"You okay? We were just joking," he said, eyebrows furrowed and a smile on his face. 

"Yes," Harry cleared his throat. He looked away, unable to hold John’s questioning gaze. "It’s just… We’ve a friend and we haven’t heard from him since our escape from the Burrow." 

"Oh," John said, breathing in. He looked aside at Sherlock, but the detective remained focused on something out in the street. "I’m sure they’re alright. If not, the word would get out already." 

"That’s what Hermione said as well," Harry admitted, sighing. "You’re probably right, I mean. I just - he had it tough, these past few years, that’s all. Didn’t want him to get more on his plate than needed." 

"We could figure out a way how to reach him," John suggested, but Harry shook his head.

"Look, I appreciate your willingness to help, but you don’t need to stretch yourself thin," Harry said and stood up. "I think that we should get Umbridge and the horcrux sorted out first. Maybe Draco will reach out before that." 

Oh no. Did he say too much?

"Yes, one problem at a time," Sherlock agreed, finally speaking up after a while of silently judging people passing under the windows. "I can only imagine it being a tedious one. Nothing we won’t manage, of course. It’s going to be exciting." 

"Sure." Harry didn’t know what else to say. "Uhm, I should probably go back now. Hermione and Ron may go crazy if I don’t show up before noon. So, how will we communicate?" 

Sherlock thought for a moment, scanning Harry head to toes. "We’ll leave it like it is so far," he said, his icy eyes settling on his face. "Patronuses will be used for sending short messages if either of us discovered something significant. I don’t think we’d like to risk your position at Grimmauld Place now, especially with Greyback on our tails, so if you come back here every two days, we’ll come up with a proper plan to infiltrate the ministry."

"Just be careful yourself," John added, disappearing into the kitchen. Sherlock swooshed past Harry over to the coffee table where a small mountain of papers and documents was spread out. He fished out a wallet and a pocket knife. 

"There is a man on the corner of the street watching the flat," the detective said matter-of-factly, and Harry heard John mumble something in agreement, not surprised. 

"How do you know?" Harry asked, if a little freaked out by the sudden acknowledgement he may have given himself away. 

"They’re not after you," Sherlock said levelly, as if reading his mind. That did calm him down a bit. "I know because I saw him wearing a kilt over a black coat with black Nike sneakers. Plus, he’s been standing there for over half an hour and it is to be expected they’d keep a light watch over us. No worries, he’s harmless for us." 

Sherlock made his way to the coat rack and grabbed his coat. Not long after, John emerged from the kitchen and put on his jacket as well. Harry followed them downstairs, taking out his Invisibility Cloak. 

"Going out so soon, boys?" Mrs. Hudson peered out from her doorway. She was holding a small leather bag in her hand. 

"We have a case to work on, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said without a glance. He turned to Harry and winked when she hurried to him and basically forced him to take the bag (with minced pie and brandy butter), saying he needn’t worry, that she’d made more than she could eat. 

"Do you still have some leftover?" John asked running a hand through his hair. He walked to the door and touched the handle, waiting before opening it. 

"Of course, dear, though I think you should watch your figure," she said, turning around, making her way back to her kitchen. She looked at Harry, her eyes twinkling. John let out a fake gasp, giggling right after. "It’s been so nice to meet you. Do come back, okay?" 

"Good, the sentiment behind us, we have a case to run," Sherlock said impatiently. He rolled his eyes as Mrs. Hudson laughed and closed the doors behind her. Then he turned to Harry himself. "Put your Cloak on now. You’ll have to slip past us as we’re leaving so as not to arise suspicion. Follow us until we reach the corner and then head your way. We’ll let you know lest we find something." 

Harry nodded and put the silky Cloak over his head, vanishing out of sight instantly. Sherlock’s eyes flicked around, trying to find any trace of him, unable to do so. He quite enjoyed being hidden from the detective’s gaze. 

"Right, then," John said, tightening his grip on the handle. "Ready?" 

"Yeah," Harry said, startling John as he creeped closer to him inconspicuously. 

They left the flat as planned, Harry barely making it without stumbling and having the Cloak fall off, but he succeeded, thankfully. He carefully followed their stride, Sherlock leading the way confidently. 

"Be careful, Harry," he heard Sherlock whisper somewhere into his invisible direction before parting ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll see you in a month ^^ I plan some Drarry backstory, get ready for Hogwarts (•µ•)  
> ps: my tumblr is potterlockedstill :)


	5. The Unexpected Champions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my betas, Daria, Beky, and Panda, whom I love as much as Draco loves to bitch about Harry~

The Great Hall went silent with anticipation. Every Hogwarts student held their breath, eyes fixed on the Goblet of Fire, it's blue flames dancing alluringly, attracting attention. It would seem to be the only remaining source of light in the Hall, but the scattered carved pumpkins enlightened distant corners as well. Any second now, the Goblet will give them the names of the three Triwizard Tournament champions. 

Few people started to get restless and shifted nervously on their seats next to Draco. The Durmstrang visitors murmured something in their language, and Draco internally rolled his eyes at them, but it was more out of jealousy that he couldn't understand them. 

The waiting seemed to drag out forever and Pansy Parkinson whispered something to her friend on her right, but the moment Draco wanted to comment on the stupidity of the Goblet, the flames inside it suddenly turned red and sparks began to fly out of it. In a quick flash, a tongue of flame shot upwards from the Goblet, a burnt piece of paper slowly trailing the thick air, fluttering down onto Dumbledore's open palm. 

The Headmaster held the charred paper up so that he could read the name out loud to the shocked students who were now practically glued to their seats with expectation. 

"The champion for Durmstrang," Dumbledore read clearly, the now-again blue flames restored in the Goblet, "is Viktor Krum." 

Applause filled the Great Hall with such force that Draco's insides were rattled along with the silverware spread out jumping in front of him. He put on his smug look and turned to face the Gryffindor table meaningfully. Right there, Weasley and Potter shot him a glance but otherwise pretended not to mind that the Durmstrang settled at the Slytherin table. Totally not obvious that they envied them. About damn time they learned that not everything revolved around them or their House. Oh, how he couldn’t wait for the moment when he’d befriend Krum and let these two tossers know. Rub it in their faces, yes. 

The Goblet lit up again and sure enough, it sent another piece of paper right out, Dumbledore catching it mid-air this time. 

“The champion for Beauxbatons,” Dumbledore said, clearing his throat before the lingering excited chatter died down, “is Fleur Delacour.”

Her peers weren’t exactly thrilled by the news as she swept by the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables, her long silvery hair gently bouncing up and down as she made her way to the Hogwarts Headmaster. As Pansy pointed out, a couple of Delacour’s schoolmates were hysterically crying at not being chosen. Dumbledore congratulated her and pointed her to the doors that would lead her to some meeting room for the champions. One more to go, for Hogwarts.

No sooner than when Fleur disappeared the Hall went silent again. This was it. This was the peak every Hogwarts student had waited for since the announcement that the Tournament would take place here was made. Every House rooted for their own, naturally, however cordial they all pretended to be. Well, they weren’t exactly thrilled by the thought of having a Slytherin champion, though. Most of the student body agreed on that, no matter their reason.   
All eyes were fixed on the Goblet, one last time. It felt like ‘time’ stopped existing for an excruciating moment, though, stretching and prolonging the tension in the already overfilled room. Draco sat on the edge of his seat, his breath on hold. It was a shame he wasn’t of age, otherwise he would’ve been amongst those who inched to hear their name. 

Red flames, sparks, the instant smell of burnt parchment, deafening silence. Dumbledore’s long fingers turned the tiny piece of smoking paper round for him to be able to read the name. 

Dumbledore gave a small smile, his half-moon spectacles reflecting the light from the Goblet as his head raised up, his gaze looking over his school and the guests. Finally, he spoke. The Hogwarts champion was….

“Blake Selcout,” he said, the tension not easing for another few seconds while the other tables took it in. 

First if all - who?

Second of all - he’s from Slytherin. 

The Durmstrangs started clapping immediately, along with the Beauxbatons, out of politeness, of course. At last, the Hogwarts students woke up and clapped with them, the clapping getting stronger by the minute as especially the Slytherins realised what had happened. 

By the time someone ushered Selcout’s shocked body forwards, their table was full on cheering and Hufflepuffs and at least half of the Ravenclaws joined in the end, Draco noticed. He took great pleasure at the sour expressions the Gryffindors displayed, though the First Years clapped (and were immediately stopped by their older peers). Potter, Weasley, and Granger all looked miserable at the prospect of having a Slytherin win the Tournament. Delightful. 

But…

There was one problem, which was that Selcout was a transfer student. Well, he changed schools this year, his final seventh. Why, no one knew, he mostly kept to himself and he didn’t strike Draco as someone interesting, being quiet most of the time. Pansy muttered under her breath that he isn’t even British - he transferred from Ilvermorny - but that didn’t matter. He was a Slytherin now, that was important. Draco’s plan was to befriend him and show Potter that Slytherins are worthy to win this Tournament, the Goblet clearly thought so too. 

Dumbledore repeated the niceties and sent the still stunned Selcout on his way to join Krum and Delacour somewhere in the castle. Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman rose to their feet, and Dumbledore beamed at the rest of them. It was a successful and content evening. 

“Now that we have our champions chosen,” he said, hands clasped behind his back. “I hope we all will support them with every ounce capable, as I’m sure they will need it. And appreciate it. That goes out to the rest of Beauxbatons and Durmstrangs too, I hope. As the Tournament progresses -” 

The Headmaster’s speech halted abruptly, and it was clear to everyone why. 

An unexpected flash of red flames reached for the ceiling with a sudden burst that made half the school jump. Dumbledore moved towards the Goblet, hand outstretched. He caught the paper with such a vigor Draco could hear the swoosh of it as he angled it so it was possible to read. 

There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the burnt slip of parchment, and the rest of the school stared at their Headmaster. Dumbledore cleared his throat, his spectacles flashing towards the very opposite of the Slytherin table, and Draco resignedly knew what this must’ve been about. He threw daggers across the Great Hall as Dumbledore said --

_“Harry Potter.”_

Because of course.

X

Blake shuffled to a chamber not too far from the Great Hall, but isolated enough not to hear the buzz of the students from here. His mind was blank, as though it turned into a pudding - and not the weird, savoury English one, but the sweet one his mum used to make back in America. When he realised how strange the analogy sounded, he shook his head, shoved hands in the pockets of his robe and let his legs carry him on. 

He soon found himself to be standing in a much smaller room filled to the brim with moving paintings of witches and wizards, all of them muttering and watching his every step upon his arrival. Opposite the entrance a fire was roaring in the fireplace. 

Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum, if he remembered correctly, were standing close to the brightest source of light, but they weren’t facing each other. Their silhouettes looked impressive against the fire. Krum was leaning on the mantelpiece, his back halfway turned to the Beauxbatons champion. Fleur turned to look at Blake, throwing back her silvery hair gracefully. 

She regarded him momentarily, but none of them bothered to say a word, they just nodded in acknowledgement. Krum didn’t move and kept staring at the flames, which made Blake a little uneasy, but that’s probably how Europeans went. Not that he was talkative himself, hell no, but the tension here and back in the Great Hall was almost sliceable. 

“I suppose we wait here for further instructions?” he tried conversationally, to no avail. Fleur pierced him with her blue eyes longer than he considered comfortable, and Krum still stood next to the fireplace like he was rooted to the spot. Blake shrugged noncommittally. “I guess so, then.”

He let out a harsh sigh, his shoulders slouching slightly. 

How in the bloodiest of hells - as his British classmates would say - got him to be a Hogwarts champion? When it was announced at the beginning of the year, he just rolled his eyes and wanted to get on with his workload, which, frankly, was over the top already. They didn’t take things lightly at Hogwarts, and the professors viciously wanted Seventh Years to succeed in their N.E.W.T.s. 

Truth be told, Blake was glad he transferred in his last year, at least he had an excuse not to talk to people when in library or in his dormitory. And even though he didn’t seek friends in the castle, they, appallingly, found him. 

Cedric Diggory, a Hufflepuff classmate with whom he shared classes with (Potions, Charms, and Transfiguration) was quite the talkative type. He was the one who chatted him up, asking if he needed help with getting to classes (an offer Blake took immediately, Hogwarts was _bloody confusing_ ) and once the Headmaster said those over seventeen could submit their names, Cedric softened him up to do it as a joke. For some goddamn reason, Blake agreed. And now, because of the same goddamn reason, he was drafted, no, chosen, by some ancient goblet to compete in this apparently dangerous-but-not-so-much Tournament. 

Blake wasn’t stupid. He read up on the history of this whole “friendly” competition, and it wasn’t as friendly as Cedric tried to pass it on as. Na-ah, people have died, and this was supposed to be tightening international wizarding relationships?

He will rub it in his face once he gets more information about the Tournament. 

The door opened again, shyly and quietly. All three of the champions turned around, expecting Professor Dumbledore and the organizators from the Ministry. Instead, they were looking at a skinny, dark-haired boy with glasses. Blake faintly recognised him, but he had no clue where from yet. 

The witches and wizards in the paintings stirred restlessly, a few of them even ran to another painting to get a better look at him. The boy stood there, unsure what to do next. 

Fleur was the first to speak. “What is it? Do zey want us back in ze Hall?”

Did something change? Were they needed elsewhere? What if the Goblet took it all back and they weren’t champions anymore? Blake would welcome that with an embrace. Honestly, if he didn’t know he couldn’t back out of this thing, he wouldn’t even bother to show up. He’s graduating for God’s sake, he needs to study! 

Before the boy could speak up, the doors were slammed open and a number of people flooded the space. Blake recognised the Hogwarts professors and the two headmasters of the rivaling schools, and the two looked furious. 

“Unacceptable!” shouted the tall woman, pushing a lamp aside with her large hand. Fleur fled to her instinctively, her teacher shielding her. 

Krum looked quizzically at his own headmaster, who silently stalked besides him, putting a firm hand on his broad shoulders. Hatred spilled from his eyes as he looked at the young boy, and then at Dumbledore. Professor McGonagall and Snape, with Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman right behind them, were also present. 

The scurrying feet of Mr. Bagman approached the boy, he squeezed his hand and had a look of utter bliss on his face, strongly contrasting the otherwise very somber atmosphere. 

“This is absolutely extraordinary!” he said, facing the rest of them. “Gentlemen, and lady, let me introduce you - as incredible as it is - a _fourth_ Triwizard champion? Harry Potter, a Triwizard Tournament champion! Who would have thought?”

Ah, it’s that Potter kid some people fussed about. He could see it now, and he instinctively searched for the foolproof sign that it is indeed him - the scar, which was described by many over the years. Blake didn’t know how to feel about this whole ordeal. 

As soon as Bagman cheerily announced the fourth champion, all hell broke loose. Madame Maxime and Karkaroff, the foreign headmasters tore into Dumbledore about how unjust this was, Hogwarts having two champions, and how Dumbledore’s magical restrictions preventing younger students from participating were obviously flawed. 

“Oh, don’t blame Dumbledore, Karkaroff,” said Professor Snape suddenly with an air of softness. “Potter’s rather determined to break rules, he’s been at it since he arrived here -”

“Thank you, Severus.” Dumbledore’s voice was firm, and Snape went quiet immediately, though his eyes lingered on Harry malevolently. 

Harry, looking as out of his depth as ever possible, regarded the older man, obviously unsure of what to expect. Was Dumbledore going to yell at him? Scold him? Blake found himself fascinated by the scene as much as he had been confused. But he also knew the answer to Potter’s fear that was eating him up. No, Dumbledore wouldn’t lose his temper, and Blake thought it impossible a feature to go with the Headmaster. 

Dumbledore, hands clasped behind his back, tilted his head to the side and peered at Harry over his half-moon spectacles. 

“Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” Dumbledore asked _calmly._

“No, Professor,” Harry answered, shrinking a tiny bit into himself, painfully aware everyone was watching him. 

Blake heard Snape snort in disbelief somewhere in the shadows. 

“Did you ask an older student to put your name in the Goblet for you?” Dumbledore continued, ignoring Snape. 

“No,” Harry insisted, his voice carrying a hint of desperation. 

All hell broke loose again. Madame Maxime said that the younger boy was lying, and Professor Snape was observing the disbelief with growing sneer. Both Karkaroff and Maxime kept bringing up Dumbledore’s abilities on procuring magic, but Professor McGonagall had none of that, fiercely defending both Dumbledore and Harry, scowling at Snape in the process. If Dumbledore believed Harry, then she did too. Admirable, though Blake had a slight sense of being caught in some strange family drama. 

But the damage was done. Harry, nor anybody else of the champions, could back out now. Mr. Crouch made that very clear - they were bound to compete, and they must follow the rules. In response, Karkaroff demanded the Goblet to have another round, so that Durmstrang and Beauxbatons can submit one more champion and be equal to Hogwarts. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that. The Goblet has just went out and wouldn’t light until the next Tournament. The deal was sealed. 

The row, to Blake’s dismay, didn’t end there. If he ever underestimated the history between the French and the English, this experience couldn’t prove him more wrong. Madame Maxime was insufferable, and Karkaroff was threatening to complain to the International Confederation of Wizards and whatnot, none of which fazed Dumbledore. Karkaroff, however, wouldn’t take this silently.

“And have it crossed your thick skull,” growled a voice from the threshold, “that maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for the prize the Tournament offers?”

Mr. Bagman was anxiously stepping from one foot to another in one place, the tense silence setting above them like a trap. 

“Ah, I see that Professor Moody considers it a waste of time if he hadn’t uncovered six plots to murder him before the day is over, Dumbledore,” Karkaroff snarled, crossing his arms. “And now he is teaching his students to fear assassination too. You surely had your reasons why to employ him.”

Blake took a step back, finding himself to be standing close to Harry who was pushed aside while the adults argued over the issue. 

“Imagining things, am I? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put Potter’s name into the Goblet…”

“And what evidence is zere of that?” Madame Maxime threw up her hands angrily. Fleur behind her played with a stray strand of her silvery hair. 

“Well, the Goblet of fire is a very powerful magical object and someone fooled it,” Blake blurted out. He was surprised that he did, and now everyone’s attention was on him. Even Harry, who seemed like he wanted to fade into thin air and disappear, quirked up an eyebrow at him. Blake felt it right to continue. 

“It would take an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm, though, wouldn’t it?” He knew he was right, probably, but adults in places of power like these sometimes (so, often) didn’t like to listen to reasonings of younger students, he knew that too well. He had to present it so that they would feel like the answer was out in the open, which it was, but anger usually took all the logic out of people’s minds. He glanced at Dumbledore, who had a hint of smile under that long beard of his, encouraging him to go on. “It’s possible that the Goblet was tricked into forgetting there were only three schools competing in this tournament. Couldn’t someone submit Potter’s name under a different school last minute?”

“Yes, that would make him the only one in his category,” grumbled Moody, his magical eye spinning up and down, looking Blake over curiously. “Good thinking, Selcout.”

“I can see that your pupils are rather keen to undergo such conspiracies. You seem to have given it a lot of thought, Moody,” Karkaroff said, his voice cold as ice. “This cannot be taken seriously. Didn’t you smash a birthday present thinking someone sent you a basilisk egg? I heard it was just a carriage clock, what a shame…”

Moody turned to him once more, his magical eye zooming in on the other headmaster. “It’s my job as a teacher here at Hogwarts, Karkaroff, to think like Dark wizards do, Karkaroff. As you ought to remember --”

“Enough, Alastor,” Dumbledore said, his tone suggesting he shouldn’t finish his sentence. Harry next to Blake stirred. 

“It is a peculiar situation we found ourselves in,” Dumbledore said after a while of thought. He spoke to everyone, serious and composed. “It seems, however, that we have no other choice than to accept it. Blake and Harry have both been chosen to compete, and they will do so, according to the rules.”

Madame Maxime protested, but when Dumbledore calmly asked her to suggest an alternative, she fell silent and merely glared. Blake observed the rest of the small crowd gathered around the fireplace. Professor Snape looked furious, his eyes flaming with rage from the shadowy corner where he stood; Karkaroff was still livid and Madame Maxime looked rather scandalised. The only person who remained cheerful and excited was Mr. Bagman. 

“Better get on with it, then, ha?” he smiled at the four champions, rubbing his hand. “We’ve got to give you all instructions, right, Barty? You want to do the honours?”

Mr. Crouch, who jerked at the mention of his name, straightened himself and turned to face the rest. “Yes, instructions, yes… The first task, then…”

The man was weary and tired, as though he were ill. He had dark bags under his eyes, his wrinkled skin pale and almost papery. His robes seemed to be weighing him down, but he didn’t crumble. 

In the light of the fireplace, he turned to Fleur, Viktor, Blake, and Harry, letting out a deep sigh. “The tasks in general are designed to test your skills in different, yet similar areas of interest. The first task is designed to test your daring, therefore we are not going to be telling you what it is you’re facing. Courage is a very important quality vital for witches and wizards, very…

“The task will take place on November twenty-fourth, and the other students and a panel of judges will be present to give out a score after your performance.

“You as champions are not allowed to ask or accept help of any kind to complete the given task at hand, not from teachers nor from anyone else. You will face the the first challenge armed only with your wands. Information about the second task will be presented to you when the first one is over. Naturally, given the how demanding the tournament is, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests.”

Mr. Crouch shot a glance in Dumbledore’s direction. “I think that’s all, Albus?”

“I would say so,” said Dumbledore, his white eyebrows furrowed with mild concern. “Are you sure you won’t stay the night at Hogwarts, Barty?”

“I cannot afford to stay longer than necessary, Dumbledore,” said Mr. Crouch. “It is very busy at the moment, I’ve left my assistant, Weatherby, in charge…”

Blake raised an eyebrow at the poor guy named Weatherby. What a strange name to live with. Well, maybe his American standards are not completely up to date with the Brits. 

“I insist you have a drink at least before you go,” said Dumbledore, hands clasped behind his back. Mr. Bagman joined in at Dumbledore’s offer enthusiastically, trying to convince his colleague from the Ministry to stay. It was obvious he prefered fun overspending time at the office. Mr. Crouch impatiently refused, and before Dumbledore could extend the offer to Karkaroff and Madame Maxime, they were both leading their champions away. Fleur and her teacher were hastily exchanging words in French, and Blake understood a few fancy curse words he didn’t know could be used in such a way Madame Maxime did. He registered how Dumbledore, looking after them, chuckled briefly before turning his attention to him and Harry. 

“I suggest you two go to bed,” he said, smiling warmly at the two of them as if this was a casual evening, no mentions of a possible want to murder the younger boy next to Blake. “Gryffindor and Slytherin are surely waiting to celebrate this with you, and I don’t want them to wait for an excuse to make a noise for much longer.”

Blake and Harry looked at each other, nodded, and left the room side by side. 

The Great Hall was deserted and the candles inside the carved pumpkins smiled at them eerily. 

It was awkward. Blake felt that he should probably say something to Potter; he didn’t mutter a syllable since Dumbledore asked him whether someone else put his name in the Goblet. He was obviously uncomfortable and exhausted. 

Passing the entrance hall now only lit by torches, Blake took a deep breath and plucked up the courage to say something. What would Cedric do? He was the one with social skills, and he got into his head to make some friends. Well, this could be a good opportunity, wouldn’t it? Being the two Hogwarts champions that didn’t really even want to participate? 

“So…” he started, trailing off. He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly devoid of words. Where was Cedric The Social Butterfly when you needed him? 

Harry quirked up an eyebrow at Blake. “So.”

“You’re Harry Potter, then?” he said, cursing himself immediately. Harry inhaled resignedly and looked away for a split second. “Sorry, I… sorry. I know you must’ve heard that a lot over the years. I know who you are. It’s a stupid conversational question. I would hate that too.” 

Great, he’s babbling nonsense now. _Screw you and your natural ability to smooth talk, Cedric,_ he thought. 

He realised Harry was staring at him, his facial expression unreadable in the faint lighting. 

“Uhm, okay.” Awkward silence. Then, Harry shifted restlessly, shoving hands in his pockets. “I didn’t put the name in. I was telling the truth.”

He stared up at Blake, voice defensive and yet flat. 

“I know you didn’t,” Blake said, crossing his arms. His robes offered him some comfort in the chilly hall. He rubbed his hands over his shoulders to get his blood flow circulating. “I mean it, I believe you.”

“Really?” Harry sounded incredulous. 

“Really,” Blake nodded, his hand absentmindedly running through his slightly greasy hair. He needed a shower. “Uhm, so, any idea who may want you dead?”

Dammit, Selcout. The moment those words escaped his mouth he wanted to slap himself or throw himself against the nearest wall. Harry’s eyebrows shot up at that question, and he tensed up again. Great. And here he was, thinking they could actually, maybe, team up together. 

“Right. I suppose anyone in Hogwarts right now, especially your House,” Harry said, agitated. “Tell the other Slytherins I don’t care what they or you say, I didn’t put my name in the Goblet of Fire.” He turned around, his robes fluttering in the miniature whirlwind he created.

Blake stood there, listening to him ascend the marble stairs leading to the Gryffindor Tower before he made his way towards the dungeons. He slouched, dragging his feet slowly behind him, not really wanting to be the centre of attention. He didn’t really belong there, did he? As if he ever thought about it….

Truth be told, he transferred from Ilvermorny at the end of June, when his Aunt with whom he lived decided it would be nice to move back to her homeland, the United Kingdom. He didn’t protest, he planned on going here someday anyway, this just sped things up. It’s not like he missed Ilvermorny, he was a loner there, maybe with one exception, but his friend graduated two years ago. Adjusting to this decision was easy. 

His mind wandered to the memory of the day he arrived to Hogwarts for the first time. He went by himself, his Aunt had errands to run, but he enjoyed the train ride and the scenery the country offered. It was peaceful. 

X

Dumbledore greeted him as if they were old friends, shaking his hand and prompting him down to have a seat. The memory of the Headmaster’s office was still fresh, even though it was months since he was there. The walls were decorated with painting of previous Headmasters, and it had an overall calming atmosphere. Dumbledore also owned a vast collection of books which got Blake’s attention, and he had a pang in his chest when he saw them, wanting to get his hands on them, the knowledge. 

But he hadn’t come there to admire Dumbledore’s books. Rather, he had come in order to be sorted to Hogwarts’ equivalent of his Ilvermorny House, Wampus. Dumbledore ran him through the basics, explaining how things work here, and to brace himself for N.E.W.T.s.

“But,” Dumbledore pointed out, smiling, “I don’t see how the final exams are going to be a problem for you, Mr. Selcout. Your grades are more than satisfactory. Do you have an idea where you may be sorted?”

Blake thought about it, of course. He never held any preference over Houses. In the end, Ilvermorny even encouraged to blend in with the other Houses, since all four characteristics were present in a person, although some were more prevailing than others. 

“I did, but I don’t have a favourite,” he answered truthfully. “I was thinking that maybe Ravenclaw, since I am more bookish than before, but then again Slytherin is sort of the equivalent of Ilvermorny’s Wampus, isn’t it?”

Dumbledore’s mouth twitched into another smile. He nodded thoughtfully, leaning into his chair. “Indeed, but at the same time, it isn’t only our innate qualities that decide our placement.”

Blake nodded and let silence descend upon them for a short while. He reached out for a cup of tea that Dumbledore summoned using magic, something his Aunt did too. Even after she moved to America to raise him, her British mannerism didn’t falter behind. He prefered American tea over this weird milky mess of a British liquid. It didn’t taste bad, but who would have thought of combining tea with milk? He took a sip, secretly surprised that this tasted almost the same as his Aunt’s. 

“Shall we get started, then?” Dumbledore asked, watching Blake put his teacup back onto the tray. Blake muttered in agreement and rose to his feet, Dumbledore mirroring his movement. “I apologise for the lack of audience, normally we have the ceremony at the beginning of the school year to welcome the First Years. I don’t think you would appreciate standing among children on your first day here, though I’m sure that if you wanted to experience the boats taking First Years to the castle, we could, of course, arrange that.”

There was a playful twinkle in the Headmaster’s eyes, and Blake snorted, amused by the light conversation. 

“Sure, I’ll think about it,” he said, following Dumbledore towards the exit from the office, but they stopped near a shelf that seated an old shabby wizard hat. 

“This is our Sorting Hat,” Dumbledore explained, taking it and stepping aside to a chair that sat near the entrance door. He motioned Blake to take a seat. “Professor McGonagall usually has the honour of putting the Hat on, but she is rather busy with her pupils at the present moment.”

Blake did as he was told, and Dumbledore put the Sorting Hat atop his combed hair. And then, as Dumbledore took a step back, patiently waiting, Blake heard a voice. 

_A new student? Interesting, from Ilvermorny…._ said the voice.

“Yep,” Blake said out loud, his gaze quickly jumping from Dumbledore to his knees, the realisation dawning upon him unpleasantly. Dumbledore huffed a laugh a shrugged, unfazed. 

_Great potential, that’s obvious with you, the Sorting Hat continued. Yes, and you’re quite daring, but reserved. Not hot-headed, though you have ambitions outreaching the standards. and the intellect, oh my._

“So far it seems like Slytherin or Ravenclaw fit me quite well,” Blake whispered, aware that Dumbledore was still surveying him. 

_So it would seem. Many have the potential, no matter the House. But they both offer different opportunities._

“What would you advise me to do?”

_Follow your instinct._

Blake closed his eyes, his mind swirling about, taking it in. It was very similar with Ilvermorny - the choice is, ultimately, yours. He let that sit for a few seconds, both the Sorting Hat and Professor Dumbledore waiting expectantly. 

Wampus was the equivalent of Slytherin, in a way, and it seemed to fit almost as much when he squeezed his eyes almost shut, metaphorically speaking. Ravenclaw was also one of the Houses that caught his attention. Both of these Houses were good and if he were born in Britain, he would probably want to end up in one of them as a child. There was a feeling in his chest, though, that didn’t quite comfort him when he thought about joining a House that wasn’t the equivalent of Wampus. There was comfort in knowing his identity was sort of set already, even though he knew how silly it all was in reality. Also, in all honesty, he quite liked the colour scheme of the Slytherin House. It went well with his greenish eyes, plus the silver lining complimented his pale skin. Superficial, yes, but that was his Aunt’s work, she would never have him walk around as a fashion disaster. He would never admit it, of course, but he let that play a teeny-minor role in his decision. 

“Slytherin.”

He opened his eyes, and when he looked up, Dumbledore was smiling at him. He took the Sorting Hat and put it in its place, returning to his desk. 

“Excellent,” the man said, settling on his chair once more. “Your Head of House is Professor Snape. He will be here shortly for an introduction. If you ever need anything, he has the answer, mostly.”

Blake approached his own seat, but chose to keep standing. 

“I must warn you, however. There is… rivalry, naturally, among the Houses. Gryffindor and Slytherin especially, but that has been here ever since the school was founded.”

“Yes, I’ve read about its History.”

“Ah, an eager mind. I’m sure you will enjoy the library that is at everyone’s disposal all day, except for night time, of course, although there have been instances where people sneaked inside after our Librarian closed it. I like to think they did it because they forgot their favourite quill or their unfinished essay which they so neatly scribbled down ahead of time before the deadline, but unfortunately some are daring and like to seek out the Forbidden Section.”

“You have a Forbidden Section?” Blake asked, curious. Ilvermorny had something similar too. 

“We do, but I would advise you to only go there if it is really necessary for your education. You may borrow books from our Librarian in case you have teacher’s permission,” Dumbledore said, his face serious. 

“Got it, don’t worry,” Blake said, pressing his lips together into a thin line. 

There was a knock on the door, and then Professor Snape walked in.

X

Blake met his Head of House again in September. Things went okay, though Snape sometimes gave him the heebie-jeebies. He wasn’t a pleasant person to be around, though he favoured his House over any other, especially Gryffindor. At least he was an actual competent teacher, unlike the one he had for the last two years at Ilvermorny. He liked his Potions classes, and that’s also where he met up with Cedric. 

He stopped in front of the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room. He muttered the password to a stonewall, thus uncovering a passage inside. He braced himself for the unexpected. 

~

After the stunned silence that wrecked everyone in the Great Hall, the Slytherin Common Room bloomed with gossip. Draco was in the centre of it all, of course. Because who else would get into the Tournament if not his majesty, _Mr. Harry bloody Potter?_

“He had to cheat his way in,” said Pansy, her brows knitted in a furious brow. 

“No way, he’s not that smart,” Draco replied, rolling his eyes. “Well, not on his own, anyway. But he’s always been Dumbledore’s favourite, wasn’t he? I’m sure if he even did as much as _sniffed,_ Dumbledore would jump around him to make it right immediately.”

A couple of heads sitting around him nodded in agreement. He felt a pang of satisfaction at the sight of it. 

“But we finally have a chance to put him in his place,” Draco said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. He had a plan already. Well, most of it, it was a work in progress. He whipped his head round to call his Quidditch teammates, who joined in to listen. 

He started explaining his first offensive - enchanted badges that would display who the real Hogwarts champion was. People seemed to like the idea, and he was very content with it. Right, that will show that Gryffindor idiot where his place is. 

He wanted to carry on and explain how they would go around distributing the badges when their very own Slytherin Champion walked in. He almost stalked away unnoticed, that’s how well he blended in, but Draco saw him at the right time. 

“Everyone! It’s our Champion, Selcout!” he called out, and a couple of other Seventh Years approached him, most of the girls giggling and hiding their faces behind their school books. 

Draco watched as the others practically dragged Selcout into the middle of the Common Room. Suddenly, he was someone important. The discomfort was clear on his face, but he didn’t say anything in protest. It’s not as if he’ll have much choice now - any opportunity that gives them the power to shoot down Gryffindors goes on display, and Selcout is now one of the assets. 

“So, did Potter tell you how he’d done it?” asked one Seventh Year, a playful look in his eyes. Draco knew that any news in this room would get out thanks to him mostly, he lead the gossip underground in Hogwarts. 

“What? You think he’d done it?” Selcout seemed surprised at the suggestion. 

“Yeah? He’s an attention seeker, what else is there to expect?”

Selcout inhaled sharply, and his eyebrows had risen and fallen as his head gave a little jerk to the side. “He said he didn’t do it.”

“Sure,” a few people snorted. 

Some of Draco’s classmates looked at him expectantly, but he remained watching Selcout closely. So he didn’t think that Potter could’ve gotten in because he likes the fame? That’s alright, he’s new. He’ll see it sooner or later. 

“Really, you should’ve seen his face,” Selcout kept on defending Potter. Draco exchanged glances with with the Gossiper, as his nickname went - this can mean some juicy news. “Potter was just as surprised as everyone else that the Goblet spit out his name. You shouldn’t get at his throat for that, alright? Especially since there may be a possibility someone wants him dead and that’s why he ended up where he is now, stuck in the Tournament.”

“Is that so? Potter is in danger of his life?” someone else barked out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. There is only so much he can come up with. He’s a show off.”

Selcout rolled his eyes and sighed. “Look, Dumbledore believed him too, shouldn’t that be enough? Why would he cheat his way in? He’s fourteen, he’s been through enough.”

“Apparently not,” Pansy smirked next to Draco. So far he’d found himself quite surprised at how defensive of Potter Seclout was, but suddenly an idea dawned on him. 

Their Champion was getting restless, Draco could see it. He tapped his fingers on the arms of the chair, his eyes jumping from one person to another, he was like a trapped animal huddled into a corner. More people started to argue against Potter, which seemed to agitate Selcout even more. 

Draco told his idea to Pansy, who opened her mouth in scandalous disbelief and then giggled. She nodded, understanding what to do, and then Draco got into work.

“Alright, shut up, all of you,” Draco said loudly enough to be through the chatter. The older students sneered at him for interrupting, but they did shut up. “Can’t you see Selcout had enough? If he says Potter is telling the truth, we should trust him, no? He’s our Champion over all.”

He turned to face Selcout, whose eyes softened a bit at the gesture, but he didn’t dare say anything. He put a hand on his shoulder, prompting him up, which Selcout did, though he looked a little confused at the change. More and more Slytherins were stunned by what he just said, some were muttering, _“Did he just defend Potter?”_ while the rest only looked mildly (very, very) bewildered. 

“Back off, will you? He’s had enough for one day,” Draco shoved a Third Year boy out of the way, leading Seclout towards the dormitories. He turned around, mouthing everyone that it’s a plan and then he jerked his head at Pansy, and then she was cherishing in the attention of others, who demanded answers. 

Draco led the Slytherin Champion a little further down the dormitories. Selcout let out a deep sigh as he regarded Draco with a thankful smile. 

“Thanks for getting me out,” he said. “Honestly, what’s wrong with them? Potter can be potentially a target of some killer and they don’t even flinch at that.”

Draco shrugged, shoving hands in his trouser pockets. “I wouldn’t pay much attention to them. House rivalry, all that. We just thought that just this once the attention could be on us, you know… Gryffindor likes to rub every victory in any regard in everyone’s faces. It’s tiresome.”

“That doesn’t mean one person has to get sacked for the stupidity of this whole rivalry thing,” Selcout huffed, scratching at the side of his neck.   
“So… You really trust him, then? Potter, I mean.”

“Yes, I do,” Selcout said, adamant about his decision to trust that show off. Draco laughed internally at his naivety, but let it slide for now. He has to play along. 

“Okay, well. I trust you, even if they don’t,” he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Whatever they believe, you were there and saw it all.”

“That’s… Thanks. Huh, I probably didn’t make a good first impression out in the open, did I?”

“They’ll get over it,” Draco assured him. This will have to be a slow, strategic game if he wants it to go where he desires. “It doesn’t matter, really. They’re not always the best company.”

Something lonely inside him, deep in his subconscious, sadly agreed with that, though he would never say it and mean it out loud. 

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” Selcout sniffed, rolling up the sleeves of his robes. He looked Draco head to toes, and then, stuttering a little, he jerkily extended his arm. “I’m Blake, by the way. Blake Selcout.”

Draco’s lips quirked up at the corners of his mouth. “Draco Malfoy,” he said in reciprocation. “Look, if you need anything, just find me. I know I’m only a Fourth Year, but I know a great deal about Hogwarts. Anytime, really.”

Blake nodded and his lips pressed into a thin line. “Thank you. I should go now….”

“Sure, good night,” Draco waved him a goodbye, nonchalantly. It took all of his self control not to just turn on the balls of his feet and trail straight back to the Common Room as fast as possible. He eventually made it, and he was welcomed by expectant glances from his peers. 

“So?” Pansy asked, unable to contain her excitement. 

“He thinks I trust him that Potter is our little innocent, unfortunate soul,” Draco laughed. “Pansy told you what I plan to do?”

He watched as the whole of the room muttered in agreement. 

“Good, so listen carefully - this is a slow game, we need to be careful. If he trusts Potter, me may get more dirt on him this way, but we have to accumulate the news and not let it fly out the window as if it were you Astronomy homework, understood? Good. I’ll pretend to be his friend, listen to him, try to see where the Tournament is going, too. I’ll give you updates but no one will talk about it outside this Common Room, alright? If we play this right, we will show Potter and the other Gryffindors that not everything has to revolve around them, or that _‘Boy Who Lived’_. And we will strike when it is most unexpected and when we have enough information on him. Maybe with time Potter will own up to his lies, and hopefully Selcout will see through him and he won’t feel any remorse for our plan.”

“So you want to tell him about this?”

“When the time is right,” Draco rolled his eyes. Wasn’t he clear about that? “Everyone on board?”

The Slytherins cheered him on, and he felt a sly smile spread across his face. This was promising. 

~

On the opposite side of the castle, Harry lay awake. For the first time in years, he didn’t want to be at Hogwarts. Ron didn’t believe him, and the others were of the same opinion that he just must have somehow put his name in that damned Goblet. 

He sighed, withering about in his bed, facing away from the four-poster bed in which his (former?) best friend slept soundly. Weirdly enough, he felt comforted by the… Slytherin Champion, Blake? Selcout. But Harry couldn’t be sure he wasn’t with Malfoy, even though Angelina explained to him that he was a new student from Ilvermorny (strange to change schools in your last year, isn’t it?). He was well aware that the Slytherins wouldn’t let him live this down. 

_It will be fine_ , he told himself. Only if he had Ron believe him to make the words really hold their weight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I'm back with a new chapter, on the 20th as promised.  
> Thank you all for the 28 kudos and 8!! bookmarks since the last chapter was published, I appreciate it all very much :) we can also be friends via comments, ya know ;D *shameless*  
> We are getting into some past action, so the next chapter may also be still in '94, then we get back to Sherlock and John as well.  
> Also, I followed the actual chapter "The Fourth Champion" from the fourth book quite closely, but I obviously wasn't copying it word for word, only some dialogues maybe quite close. Another thing - I also followed Rowling with the French accent transcription, but it just sort of looks wrong to put it like that, and I'm not sure whether I'll have it continue like that in the next chapters when Fleur speaks (maybe I'd leave the omitting of 'h').  
> I hope y'all like it so far, I am quite happy with how I planned out the next stages for the redemption arc of the Houses and Slytherins, but you'll have to wait and see how it goes ;)  
> Oh, and what is that faint smell in the slow burn distance? Is it a plane? Is it a bird? No, it's Drarry.  
> \- word count: 7303  
> \- chapter published: 20.5. 2020  
> Take care, everyone, I'll see you soon
> 
> -Vee


	6. Of Silver Blaze and the Chamber of Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John's 2nd Year at Hogwarts, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Posting this at 3 pm CET, and lemme tell you - OOF. I had to end this chapter in half of the Second Year, because this mf is just too long and I don't want one chapter to be longer than 11k words (I just started writing and I spontaneously went with the creative flow and tf, this bitch grew). So, the rest of John and Sherlock's Second Year upcoming adventure will be here in a month or quite possibly sooner, plus a chapter on the regular basis, I will see. One way or another, I hope you'll like it!  
> I also came up with a rhytm for the chapters, there will be one (or two) chapters dedicated to Sherlock and John's years at Hogwarts, then a chapter in '97, and then a chapter showing the events during Harry's time at school. And then it repeats. This way I want to give somewhat of a plot going in between in a form of sort-of flashbacks, and I think so far it kinda works? Idk. If you have any suggestion or anything, let me know!  
> My official tumblr for this fic is: I am [majesticnerdyvee](https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, I changed my name~  
> \- there, I plan to post more about potterlock and sherlock in general, maybe even write mini prompts, so you can submit something c: ficlets or oneshots, we can try together!

Spotting morons was easy. Spotting idiots following them was easier. Overall, criminals these days were nothing but a bunch of bad parody troupe parading the streets of London in nothing but their veil of ignorance and perceived cleverness. Even wizards made it a painfully obvious job, tracking them. Shame, truly.

Sherlock walked briskly, John next to him, hands in pockets. Checking in with the Network was a quick job, but fruitless. Sherlock wasn’t disappointed in his people, never, and he came to understand that things like digging up the outlay of the Ministry of Magic and routines of its certain employees took time. He really did understand, and he hated it. Damn John and his reasoning that rubbed off on Sherlock over the years. Of course, he could easily ask his older brother for these, but that would take the thrill of the chase out of it. And he would owe him. 

They crossed the road to enter a small park. Dog owners were out with their beloved pets and cretins referred to as children. Sherlock’s head throbbed upon hearing the high-pitched screams and giggles. How did muggles and wizards alike put up with this? Weren’t it for his last contact he would never set a foot in here. 

John followed him wordlessly. He was lost in thoughts as well, but that may have been sleep deprivation. And hunger. Sherlock made a mental note to stop for lunch on their way home. 

Sherlock ducked a frisbee a family of four threw accidentally far out of their reach, muttering something along the lines of ‘If it flies in front of me one more time, I’m taking it home and dissolving it in acid’ while John urged him forward and waved the people off like nothing happened. 

“You said this is our last stop?” John asked, putting a hand on Sherlock’s arm, leading him to a familiar spot away from the fuss. 

“Yes, Tim said he may have something of importance for us,” Sherlock said, nodding. He turned his head left to right, observing the park. The sun was rising steadily, it must have been close to twelve. So much for their morning errands. 

Sherlock turned around, inconspicuously walking towards a small bridge crossing a pond. There were ducks gathering near the edge, some of them nipping at each other affectionately or just to spite the other duck. 

The two men stopped close to the water, acting like they were duck-watching. John saw Sherlock reached into his pocket as he fished out a biscuit and started breaking it into smaller pieces to feed the ducks. The birds happily scooted closer to catch a treat while John circled around Sherlock, closer to the underway of the bridge. 

Yep, the stench was as strong as ever from this distance. 

“Gentlemen!” a low voice greeted them from under a nest of cardboard boxes. “Long time no see.”

“Tim,” John and Sherlock said at the same time. Tim laughed at that, the boxes jiggling slightly. It was relatively dark under there, despite the summer sun sparkling the park up rather vigorously. Magic as always. 

“Sorry I can’t face you right now,” Tim said, chuckling. “Had a bit of a fight, you know how it goes.”

“I could patch you up, if you want,” John offered, turning sideways to glance at Tim’s nest. “I still keep up with magical remedies.”

“I know you to be quite the man of steel, Doctor,” said Tim, “but these injuries are rough even for me. I already started healing, no need for that. I know the goblin stench can get overwhelming and I already barely keep it contained from the muggles, you don’t want to smell it up close. But I appreciate the thought.”

John nodded and crossed his arms. The smell _was_ atrocious. No debate over that. But he felt obliged to at least put it on the table. He can get over the necessary discomfort for others’ benefit, he’d already done that many times. 

“You said you may have something for us,” Sherlock said, changing the topic. He kept his eyes on the water, throwing another chunk of biscuit to the animals. 

Tim took a long, raspy breath. John flinched at the sound - broken ribs, possibly. The risk of infection in these conditions was running high. Even if goblins were resistant and enduring, it would be painful to live through and the recovery would be slow.

“One of my connections at the Ministry has been in touch lately,” he said, and the boxes stirred. “Among the general fuss about muggle-born hearings and the like, the maggots have been trying to dig something up, figuratively.”

“Something important,” Sherlock concluded calmly.

“Apparently. Old archives. New archives, but mostly the old. Record of wand owners dating back for the last few centuries. But it’s managed by Death Eaters, so it’s a secret.”

“Naturally.”

Tim chuckled, an action shortly followed by a vicious cough. “Sorry lads, that’s all. Just some hush-hush from your fellow humans. Your kind can be despicable, you would know. I’ve no idea if that bit of information helps, but it’s all I’ve got. I know you two usually work it out from the smallest clues.”

Sherlock smiled tightly, eyes flicking over under the bridge momentarily. “Oh, it does help tremendously, Tim. Are you sure you don’t need our help?”

“No. It’s better you go now, before the Death Eaters catch up,” he said. He was tired, this interaction cost him a great deal of energy. “Always a pleasure to help some less dense humans.”

Sherlock tugged John by the sleeve, walking away, tossing one last piece of biscuit to the ducks. “Likewise, Tim. Do survive this aftermath of your brawl, will you? We may have more fights on the horizon,” he said over his shoulder, “better be prepared.”

Sherlock turned on his heels, but John tilted his head to the side and said, “Acacia leaves help the burns, change them every hour.” If his assumption that the injuries were mostly burns was right, this would help.

“Hear, hear,” Tim grumbled and off they went. 

They left the park in silence, stopping by an Indian restaurant for takeaway and then they took a cab home to Baker Street. John spotted a few wizard watching them as well. It wasn’t all that hard when they had no idea how muggle fashion worked. It was hilarious, but also concerning. Thankfully there was no sign of Greyback or Dementors. 

John’s fist clenched automatically at the memory of facing Greyback, his brows furrowing. Sherlock noticed, scooting closer in the cab, nudging John with his knee. John snapped out of his mind, sighing. 

“It’s nothing, just me overthinking,” he said, rubbing his temples. 

“What precisely?” Sherlock asked, lifting the takeaway bag. They arrived at Baker Street. 

“What, you don’t know?” John teased with a faint smile that didn’t fully reach his eyes. He paid the cabbie, not waiting for the change as he was hungry beyond acceptable and he followed Sherlock upstairs. 

“Obviously it’s related to the case, and more concretely to Greyback,” Sherlock said, putting the food up. He was silent for a moment that they ate. “We’ll get him, John. For all the wicked things he’d done, I promise. And we’ll take down the others, too. We’ll help Harry put an end to this.”

John chewed on his food, not meeting Sherlock’s gaze. He hated to admit that Greyback out of everyone they had encountered so far stirred up so many emotions, still. It wasn’t irrational, and it wasn’t really fear, but it was uncomfortable. It was the injustice of it all that allowed Greyback to get away with his crimes that rattled John to the core; the fact that he was roaming the streets unrestrained and under the command of a crazy man who fancied himself a Lord. _A Dark Lord._

Of all the titles he had to go with Lord. He mentally chuckled at a memory from his second year when things were much simpler than they were now. Back then everyone had hoped that Voldemort was dead for good, and the merry topic of conversation was the Boy Who Lived. The very boy who visited them days ago, seventeen years later, in hopes of them being able to somehow help him and his friends rid the world of another messed up son of a bitch. 

John reached for Sherlock’s hand that was resting on the table, his thumb brushing over his pale knuckles. “I know, Sherlock,” he murmured, looking up into the piercing but reassuring silver eyes. “I know. We always do.”

X

Summer was over, but as much as he loved the free time, John found himself anticipating the new school year more than ever. He was eager to immerse himself in new knowledge and learn new spells and - see Sherlock again. 

Two long months he’d gone without seeing his Ravenclaw friend. He admittedly missed his pale face and his snarky comments about everyone and everything. Their only correspondence was through Henry, whom John had to send to Sherlock’s for a few days in July again for the same reason as in December the previous year. John had tried to persuade Sherlock to come have a sleepover at any point during the holidays, but the boy refused and had a handful of excuses each time. They were legit, though, so John didn’t push it under the promise that they’d have it one day. 

From what John gathered via the owl post, Sherlock’s summer was beyond the known realms of boring. In every letter he sent there were at least three paragraphs complaining about his brother, his extended family visiting at the given time, and about how he was grounded for meddling with advanced potions. 

John was packing his suitcase for Hogwarts the day before leaving, a smile displayed on his face as he remembered the contents of Sherlock’s letters. In the background _Lady Stardust_ by David Bowie was playing in the radio. He hummed along, hands pressing on his sweaters so that they’d fit in the suitcase. 

He walked back and forth between his wardrobe and his bed, packing whatever necessary clothes he would need. It turned out there weren’t too many, seeing as he had grown out of most of his clothes. Well, good thing he had new robes from Madame Malkins’. He’ll have to tell mom to take him shopping anyway, though, but that can wait until Christmas. 

John drew his last crimson sweater from the wardrobe; his Gryffindor jumper, possibly his favourite. He looked at his suitcase filled to the brim with robes, his normal clothes, and second-year books and decided to leave his Gryffindor jumper out. He’ll wear it tomorrow, ready to represent his House at any given moment. 

After closing the suitcase for good that day, he rambled through his desk for anything essential he may put in a duffle bag that he’ll keep on him during the train ride. He thought about taking a fantasy book he’d borrowed from his mom, but he didn’t want to send it home by owl, it was too precious for a delivery like that. No, that stayed home. He’ll read it over Christmas. He opened a small shelf atop his desk and immediately a bunch of rolled up parchments fell out. 

Henry hooted affectionately and ruffled his feathers. He recognised them to be Sherlock’s. His beak clawed at the thin metal of his cage, yearning to be let out and stretch his wings to deliver another message.

“We’re seeing him tomorrow, bugger,” John said, plopping down on his chair as he went through the letters again. 

_‘...and that’s not the end of it, unfortunately. I had to sit through a lecture on how my being sarcastic hurts my reputation among my peers and whatnot. I wanted to be done with it, so I forced myself to sit through it, rolling eyes at Aunt Ellie just twice. That’s a record.’_

John laughed and scratched his nose. Sherlock had a knack for angering people, but he enjoyed it all the more when it was his extended family. This next letter was from the first of August:

_‘It was Mycroft’s birthday two days ago. I didn’t get him anything, of course, but Mummy forced me to congratulate him anyway. I must say that was the most awkward handshake of my life, and to imagine she wanted us to hug, John. Hug! But at least the cake was good. My father is a great baker, I may send you a sample since you already sent me your mother’s cookies. I think they would parr nicely.’_

Sherlock didn’t follow through on his promise just yet, but John made sure to remind him soon enough. Plus, he sensed that Sherlock sort-of-not-really-but-yes hinted that he may like another batch of his mom’s cookies. Why that git just didn’t ask was beyond him, but he was probably just shy. Well, Sherlock could be socially awkward, hell, he _was_. But he seemed to open up with John, which he supposed was good. 

He read another letter, from a week ago. Sherlock described his tour of Diagon Alley and how he managed to wander alone for some time. He almost made it to Knockturn Alley, even, weren’t it for Mycroft and his ‘ _interfering soddingness’_ to stop him, as Sherlock put it. But he was able to get an extra book besides the Hogwarts bunch, one about deadly plants and their uses. John made a small note to watch out for any green stuff he may stumble upon this year. 

At the end of every letter Sherlock crumpled lots of question for John to answer in his response. The most he asked were twenty-three. That was a lot of ink John had used that day. 

Still smiling, he folded the parchments neatly and put them in a box in his wardrobe for safekeeping. His mom usually tidied up his desk and he didn’t want her to throw Sherlock’s letter out. This way he was sure they’d stay in place. 

Harry came to announce dinner was ready shortly afterwards, and he tried to push his anticipation down. Not that he slept much that night. 

~

Sherlock sat on wooden tiles, his back pressed against a cold wall - a blessing in these past few hot summer days. Why was it that August brought the most scorching heat waves every year? It will soon be over, at least. And soon, he will see John again. 

As a matter of fact, he sat on the floor surrounded by letters from John in which he reacted and responded to Sherlock’s own inquiries and stories from this dull time fo the year. Sherlock for sure didn’t anticipate that he would miss the other boy’s presence as much as he did. Not that he would _ever_ say it out loud. But he was glad that starting tomorrow, on September first, he would start plotting some new interesting adventures in the castle. He had quite something in mind. 

A cold, wet nose tucking under Sherlock’s chin startled him out of his thoughts. 

“Hello, Redbeard,” he greeted the dog, petting him on the head. The irish setter wagged his tail and sat down next to Sherlock, one paw lifted up. Sherlock took it and shook it with respect. “Any new sightings of pirates, mate Redbeard?”

Redbeard grumbled and lowered his paw, satisfied with his report. His owner grinned and hugged him, to which Redbeard responded by licking Sherlock’s curls and ears. 

“These are no First Mate manners, Redbeard,” Sherlock said, no trace of anger in his voice. He scratched the dog’s ears and chin. As years passed, Redbeard’s chestnut red coat began losing its shine, the fur under his jaw growing white and grey. At age eight right now, he could be re-christened to Whitebeard, but they both agreed it would be too much paperwork. 

Redbeard sniffed at one particular letter, so Sherlock picked it up and quickly scanned its contents. Ah, yes, this one was especially entertaining. John had just returned from a week his family had spent in Wales and he described how he thoughts that a passerby was a witch, so he tried to talk to her about some basic spells, but it turned out she was just a plain old muggle and he got funny looks after that. 

_‘Anyway, Harry laughed harder than ever, I was as red as tomato, and my mom didn’t ground me. At least something. But I could’ve sworn she had a wand! Sometimes I wish I observed more like you, you’re pretty brilliant with it, Sherlock. I wouldn’t get embarrassed so easily, then.’_

Sherlock sighed, but couldn’t help but feel a little happy about how John said he was brilliant. Sure, his parents may say it on occasion, and Mycroft had said it once too, years back, but they were family. And family can sometimes tell you white lies just because they love you. But John… he never ceased to surprise Sherlock. He didn’t run away, he didn’t insult him when his tongue blabbed on and on, and that was…. touching? Well, it was good. He knew that. 

_‘PS: I dunno if I told you, but Harry has been trying to persuade our parents to get a dog. I don’t think they’ll allow it, they barely tolerate my owl, but in any case - any name suggestions?’_

Sherlock replied by saying that it all comes down to the temperament of the dog, its breed, its eyes, and overall other details he and Mycroft considered when they got Redbeard. Towards the end of his rant, however, he gave a few suggestions, none of which were exactly dog-like. John didn’t mind. 

Redbeard shoved his head under Sherlock’s armpit, snuggling closer. He peered at the paper as though he could read fluently. 

“Sensed he talked about your kind, didn’t you?” he rested his cheek against his dog, rereading a few lines. He memorised John’s handwriting by now. The paper was the same as he received on Christmas; smooth, white, and the words were written in ballpoint pen. John even sent him a few

“You’ll meet him someday, Redbeard. You’ll like him. Maybe he’ll be my co-captain one day, too.”

Redbeard wagged his tail again, then grunted as he lowered his paws on Sherlock’s legs, dozing off. 

Sherlock absentmindedly rubbed the dog’s soft belly, finally putting the letter down. His room was a mess. It could be dealt with easily, but underage wizard were stupidly prohibited from using magic outside of Hogwarts. 

He carefully put Redbeard down so as not to disturb him and he reluctantly collected the letters, storing them under his bed’s mattress where they would be safe. His trunk lay on the floor, open and empty. 

With a sigh he started packing, first heavy books and then clothes on top. Tomorrow, he would see John again. 

~

King’s Cross was disgustingly filled with too many people to count. All of them were in the way, walking up and down the platform nine-and-three-quarters like headless chickens. Granted, it was minutes until the red train’s departure so it did make sense, but it was annoying nonetheless. 

John and Harry pushed past a family of three who were bidding goodbye to their other kid already seated in the train. Why not go a little to the side, then? The Watson siblings said goodbye five minutes ago to their father before sprinting all the way here. He couldn’t go with them, he had an important meeting in half an hour, plus the kids were already old enough to navigate themselves on the platform easily. 

They ran up to the man who handled luggage, leaving their trunks there for him to pick up (he nodded to acknowledge they put it there) and then hurried to get on the train as the conductor whistled. 

“Come on John!” Harry urged him, grasping a metal rail on the outside of the carriage. She propped the door open, grabbing John’s sleeve and practically dragging him inside. “I told him we were supposed to leave earlier than that!”

“Dad couldn’t know there would be traffic, Harry,” John said, massaging his wrist. Harry had a pretty strong grip. 

“He always acts like us being late is no big deal,” she complained. “As if _we_ had any other means of getting to the school!”

“Harry, we made it,” John said, not knowing what else to say. “Just let it go.”

But she wasn’t listening anymore. She propped her chin up, glared at him, and then stormed off. John was left alone in the corridor. He knew she was antsy to get to the station as soon as possible, but the delay wasn’t deliberate, was it? No. It was just traffic. Their dad will know next time. 

Coming back to his senses, he realised he was clutching his duffel bag rather tightly. He relaxed his fist, took a deep breath and set out to find his friends. 

He didn’t have to go looking far, because after just two minutes of mindless wandering and eyeing the compartments a familiar voice called out his name.

“There you are, Watson!” said Greg, grinning happily. He was also carrying a bag. So no luck with finding Sherlock or anyone else yet. Greg seemed to be reading his mind. “I walked from the back here, no sign of Sherlock or Carl.”

“There’s still the last three carriages,” John said and motioned for Greg to join him on this little quest. The two shuffled along the corridor, but no sign of either Carl or Sherlock, for that matter. Were they on the train _at all_? John felt a pang of anxiety hit his stomach. 

He didn’t have to feel like that for long, though. In the second to last carriage, he and Greg came to see people from about every other compartment stick their heads out to get a better look at a fight. A fight in which Sherlock Holmes figured himself.

John and Greg both winced, frozen to the spot as some older student grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his shirt and slammed him hard into the wall out in the corridor. Sherlock hissed and his hand jerked upwards to feel the back of his head, but he suppressed the urge. 

“I waited all summer for this,” said the older boy, possibly a fourth year. John vaguely recognised him. “Do you think you’re that smart? To just sneak around and frame people for stealing? I think not.”

Ah, he remembers now. 

“Anderson!” John shouted, drawing his hand from behind his trousers. It was more of an automatic action than anything. All eyes snapped to him as he fastly approached the Hufflepuff. 

Anderson let go of Sherlock and drew out his wand as well, but his stance was unsure. He didn’t expect to be confronted. 

“Have a problem?” Anderson asked, glaring the Gryffindor down. Try as he might, he wasn’t scary. John faintly registered Sherlock rolling his eyes on the side. 

“You’re beating up my friend, of course I have a problem!” 

“Friend? That’s not what you want to be. Not with this weirdo.”

“I think that’s none of your business, thank you very much,” John snarled, stepping closer, partially to step between Sherlock and Anderson should things escalate. 

“Seriously,” Anderson laughed mockingly, looking around at the curious heads for support. “You can’t think he’s normal? He _framed me_ for something I didn’t do!”

“To be frank, all the evidence the professors had found under your bed suggests otherwise,” Sherlock said dryly. He stood more firmly on his feet. “So please, don’t kid yourself. Why would you have the need to steal, though? That is still unclear, but not terribly.”

It was at that moment not only John, but Greg and the rest of the carriage sucked in a breath, sharply bracing themselves for the verbal blow Anderson was about to receive. 

John dared look at Sherlock warningly, watching as the younger boy assessed Anderson with his alert silver eyes. 

“I did not steal anything! I hate Potions, I stay away from the dungeons as much as I can!” Anderson defended himself, cheeks red. 

“And that’s exactly why you would want to devalue the class, isn’t it,” Sherlock said. It was a firm statement. “Plus get some money aside, I presume. It would come in handy, right?”

“Shut up,” Anderson warned, and John took a protective stance in front of Sherlock. “I don’t know how to get it through your thick skull, but it wasn’t me who got it there! You’re not me, and I sure as hell don’t remember tumbling down to the dungeons to steal in complete darkness while there are Prefects and the stuck ups above them patrolling the halls!”

“Did someone call me?” 

Everyone’s head turned to the left where a tall Ravenclaw Seventh Year with Head Boy badge stood. Mycroft Holmes. John heard Sherlock groan behind him. 

“I assume you don’t want to be summoned to Professor Sprout’s office on the first day of school, Anderson,” Mycroft said cooly. He was scarily calm. If it were possible, John was sure Anderson would shrink under that gaze. “Or do you want to continue harassing Second Years? That wouldn’t be the wisest decision.”

“It’s not my fault he’s going around, deducing people, and accusing them of something they didn’t do!” Anderson said angrily, clutching his wand. 

“You won’t do that.” It sounded more like a command than a simple statement of Anderson’s bravery (or stupidity). The Fourth Year sighed, shrugging. Mycroft looked at the curious students fully focused on this strange little gathering. “You want to return to your chitchats or, Merlin forbid, to reviewing the basic spells you forgot over the summer.”

To John’s eerie surprise, everyone watching immediately disappeared into their compartments (and even pulled the curtains) and now there were only Anderson, Mycroft, Sherlock, and John himself left. 

“That should do it,” Mycroft smiled tightly, brown eyes focused on the Hufflepuff. “A word, Anderson. You too, John, if you please.”

“Mycroft-”

“No worries, Sherlock, he’ll come back in one piece,” Mycroft said over his shoulder, leading Anderson out of earshot. John nodded reassuringly at Sherlock and Greg.

“Be right back, guys. Keep an eye on him, Greg.” His friend nodded and patted Sherlock on the shoulder, prompting him back into the compartment. 

“As far as my brother is concerned,” Mycroft said, unfazed when John caught up with him and Anderson, “ he was in this compartment waiting for his classmates to arrive when you came, dragged him out and started a pointless fight about something that happened over two months ago.”

“With all due respect, I keep repeating I didn’t steal any of the ingredients and nobody believes me!”

He stepped closer, looming over Anderson. “While my brother’s deductions may be untimely at times, this was merely a logical conclusion - and to the point, rather - based on the clues you so carelessly left behind, like a piece of your torn robe. If he were running around, deducing you, you would know it. You seeked him out yourself because you still hold a grudge over your poor planning skills is immature.”

Anderson opened his mouth and closed it, sort of like fish out of water. 

“Seeing the logic, aren’t we?” Mycroft said coldly, clasping hands behind his back, straightening himself. He unlocked the doors leading to another carriage. “Off you go, then. Rest assured I _will_ know if you go after Sherlock unprovoked. Have a good day.”

John watched Anderson bugger off, shoulders slouching. 

“I imagine he didn’t think he would be told off for bullying by Mycroft Holmes when he woke up this morning,” John joked lamely. He risked a sideways glance at the Sherlock’s older brother, who was only amusedly contemplating him. 

“Yes, I believe he had plans to take it further,” the Ravenclaw looked at his shoes. John didn’t like what it implied. 

“I was there,” he said, crossing his arms. “I wouldn’t let them get in each other’s hair.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“Right.”

Well, this was awkward. John held Mycroft’s gaze as the older boy observed him, his lips curled in a sly smile. 

“You’re an interesting young man, John Watson,” he said at last. “No wonder my brother likes you. Your loyalty has exceeded expectations, as always, for the time being.”

“Oh….kay? I supposed that’s good? Listen, if this is about bribing me to spy on him to see if he goes around provoking-”

“Don’t be silly, John,” Mycroft said flatly, dismissing his suspicion with a wave of his hand. “We’ve established that offer is out of the window. I simply wanted you to see that my authority is only so out-reaching. This is my last year at Hogwarts, too. I won’t be around to help Sherlock ward off idiots for the rest of his studies.”

“I don’t understand,” said John, who really wasn’t sure what Mycroft was aiming at. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Ah, there’s that Holmes-typical trait. “What I’m trying to say is,” he started, looking mildly uncomfortable considering his words, “that I appreciate your willingness to continue being Sherlock’s… friend, even though he may refuse to acknowledge it. But after all, he’s not the best when it comes to socialisation.”

John’s frown softened. He took Mycroft for stuck-up, after the whole ordeal with occasional kidnapping and the attempt to bribe John, but given how quickly he came to the rescue (assuming he pays somebody else to keep an eye on Sherlock, which is more than probable), he really is only watching out for his sibling’s greater good (whatever it may be). 

“You really are worried about him,” John stated, biting his lip. 

“Constantly.”

John nodded, understanding his struggle. Sherlock was a handful, and he’s only known him for a year. But hell, he wouldn’t trade his crazily brilliant friend for anything. “I’ll go and check on him. Thank you for… trusting me, I guess.”

“Ta, John Watson,” was all the Head Boy said, disappearing further into the train. 

John traced back to the compartment where Greg and Sherlock sat in silence. Greg took to his half of the seats, laying down like he owned the damn place. Sherlock sat opposite of him, close to the window, unfocused. 

“Okay, so what exactly was that about?” His voice startled them both out of their trances. 

“Well the Head Boy said it pretty good I think,” Greg grunted, putting an elbow over his eyes as he tried to kip. 

“I know, I just figured I could have a dramatic entrance,” John said airily. Then he looked at Sherlock’s curly head, sternly. “We’re not even in Hogwarts and you were in trouble, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Sherlock’s reflection in the window smirked. “And yet here you are, ready to defend my honour and bones from angry Hufflepuffs.”

“You haven’t seen an angry Hufflepuff unless you witnessed Professor Sprout yelling at Filch for letting Mrs. Norris piss in her daffodil pots,” Greg said, his lips quirking up. 

Sherlock and John’s eyes met, confused for a moment before they burst out laughing. That was a sight to behold for sure. 

“I need to see it with my own eyes,” John said, wiping away imaginary tears from his cheeks. He plopped down on the seat next to Sherlock’s (since Greg so graciously offered to move) and nudged him with his elbow. “But hey, it’s good to see you.”

He didn’t realise how happy it made him to see Sherlock regard him with a genuine smile. 

“Likewise,” he winked.

~

The Feast was as grand as John remembered. Lots of mouth-watering food, delicious smells, and a different, but familiar homely atmosphere. He parted with his friends at the entrance, joining his table. He suffered through the Sorting ceremony, introduction of new Professors (Slughorn retired, the new teacher was young), and Professor Dumbledore’s beginning-of-the-year speech with a very empty, very loud stomach. Once the food appeared in front of him, he devoured the closest meals he could scramble on his plate and didn’t stop until his half-finished third serving. 

When the general buzz quietened down a little, he looked up at the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables. He saw Greg flicking mashed potatoes at his dorm mate (Ackerly?) and ducking a chicken drumstick in the process. When his eyes travelled over the blue table, he jumped a little. Sherlock was already watching him intently. 

“Seriously?” Sherlock mouthed at him, raising an eyebrow. John looked at the fork he’s been holding - on which he had a nice bite shepherd’s pie - and then he looked back at his friend.

“Hungry,” he mouthed back, spooning himself the pie, not breaking eye contact. It was his turn to tilt his head and raise an eyebrow. _Did you eat?_

Sherlock finally broke the intense eye contact (victory!) and scowled at his own plate where a poorly constructed meal consisting of pieces of half-eaten chicken, rice, and vegetables. He made a grimace and attempted the puppy eyes at the Gryffindor, but failed. Na-ah, that was John’s specialty. So, he stabbed the chicken and made a show of eating, but it made John happy. 

After the Feast was officially over, he met up with Sherlock outside the Great Hall, Greg having been lost in the crowd. 

“I wish you could roll me up the stairs, I’m stuffed,” John groaned, panting slightly as they ascended the enchanted stairs. 

“I could push you down if you want to,” Sherlock deadpanned, but his amused expression betrayed him. 

“Git, I’ll drag you with me.”

“You won’t get the chance, I’m too fast.”

And with that he turned left, his robes fluttering behind him mysteriously. 

“I’ll see you in class, then!” John called after him, then he got carried away by the steady flow of his fellow Gryffindors up to the Tower. 

~

The timetables were given out by Professor McGonagall again. She politely greeted each student, wishing them good morning. 

“Mr. Watson, your schedule,” she handed him a piece of paper, waking him up. Last night’s dinner was still heavy in his twelve-year-old stomach. 

“Thank you,” he said, not really registering anything in front of his eyes. He sat up late into the night with the other four boys in his dorm, namely Carl, and they shared their stories from summer. 

She gave him a knowing look before handing out the rest of schedules and going to her office. 

He scanned his schedule, his eyes jumping up and down to find out what classes he had with Sherlock. Relief washed over him when he saw they shared Potions again, as well as Transfiguration and Astronomy. Nice, maybe he’ll be able to bully Sherlock into paying more attention to the subject. He felt a pat on his shoulder. 

“Mornin’,” Greg said, sitting down on the bench next to him. “Thank goodness we have Charms together this year as well. And also Dark Arts and History of Magic!”

“Great, that means we’ll both fall asleep in History,” John snorted and put his timetable in his backpack. He buried his face in his hands. “God, I’m so tired.”

“Sherlock?” Greg assumed, stealing bacon from John’s plate. 

“I wish. No, I just talked with Carl until the wee hours.”

“How is he? Haven’t seen him on the train.”

“Good. He was in Ireland for most of the summer holiday with his grandma and then he spent two weeks in Wales with his mom,” John said, yawning. 

“Cool, and what about the kid, Moriarty? I haven’t seen him either.”

“I saw him in the Common Room, he seemed fine,” John said, getting up. “We don’t talk much, to be honest. But he seems happier than he did a year ago. What do you have now?”

“Transfiguration with Slytherins,” Greg said, grimacing. John suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Were people still judging each other based on the Houses? “Oi, don’t look at me like that, John. You-Know-Who has been causing a lot of trouble at the Ministry during summer for my dad. His followers are from Slytherin.”

“Surely not just from Slytherin,” John frowned. Greg shrugged, following him out of the Great Hall. 

“Well, they’re _mostly_ Slytherins, then. You-Know-Who himself is, and it’s terrifying. What if he has spies in the castle?”

“Wouldn’t Dumbledore know of them by now?” John said, his frown deepening. “Harry told me that he’s probably the only wizard Voldemort is scared of-”

“ _Don’t say his name!_ ” Greg hissed, looking around if someone else may have heard them. They were alone in the corridor. 

“Jesus, okay…”

“Sorry. It’s just really bad and he is _evil_ , John. You can’t just go around saying his name.”

“I’ll remember it,” John promised, though he found it silly. It’s just a name! “But still, I read the history of Hogwarts and the castle is protected with strong spells. I don’t think there’s a simple way to infiltrate it. And even Dumbledore and the Sorting Hat said we will be alright, we’ve just got to stick together.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Greg sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry, I mean it, it’s just that my dad has a lot of problems at work because of him. Imperius Curses and the like. It’s not easy.”

“Well, the Ministry survived this long, a wizard who calls himself ‘Lord’ is just another obstacle,” John joked, checking his blue plastic watch on his right wrist. “Oh no, I’ll be late for Transfiguration! See you later!”

~

John barely made it to the class on time, but he did (with a _look_ from Professor McGonagall, but hey). He spotted Sherlock fairly easy, he was sitting alone on the far right side of the class in the front row. Due to John being late they had not much time to chat besides greeting each other.

The class started slowly enough. Professor McGonagall explained their curriculum and what they’d be covering in second year, and John scribbled everything down as fast he could. He wanted to do well in his subjects. 

Then they moved onto their first spell of the year - turning beetles into buttons. Professor handed everyone a beetle - vicious little things - and walked them through the instructions. John vaguely remembered something similar from the previous year, and by the end of the class he managed to turn his beetle into a button, if a little misshapen. Sherlock, on the other hand, excelled on his first try. Smugness basically emitted from him when Professor McGonagall praised his work. (“Show off,” John had muttered, deserving a shove in the ribs from his friend.) As the class neared its end, McGonagall piled tons of homework for them to work on until Monday the following week.

“How did you transform the beetle so easily?” John wanted to know after class as they walked to their Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. 

Sherlock merely shrugged at the inquiry. “I told you my summer was boring. I practically memorised the books by now. The classes just allow me to put my knowledge into practise.”

“You’re crazy,” John laughed, elbowing Sherlock. “But hey, you made McGonagall smile, that’s a feat in itself.”

Sherlock smirked and his back straightened a little. “Transfiguration is one of the more interesting subjects, and McGonagall is a very competent teacher. Though I have suggestion on improving some of the old-school techniques…”

“Yeah, that’s more like a death row,” John patted him on the shoulder before parting ways, shaking his head. Of course he would still play the smartass. “I’ll meet you in the library after classes!”

The rest of the day went by fast. Their new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Mr. Ibsen, was a well-travelled man, as he told them, and he seemed good enough. Their first class was fine, they talked about Cornish Pixies and Mr. Ibsen even showed them one he kept in a small cage, similar to Henry’s. After that John and Greg had History of Magic where John dutifully took notes, although he almost dozed off a couple times. Fortunately for him and Greg, he had strong will and love for history. 

The two met up with Sherlock as planned, getting started on pressing essays (“We’ve been back less than a day and we’ve got three essays already, what is this?”). Sherlock graciously rolled his eyes at Greg’s comments, meanwhile John sympathised with the Hufflepuff. It _was_ kind of overwhelming. Thankfully Sherlock took mercy on them and in between of berating their ‘useless little brains’, ‘incomprehensible stupidity’, and ‘intelligence of a brain-damaged squid’, he helped them find the right information and more than eagerly pointed out their mistakes. 

Things seemed to be going well for them. Until….

The Potions class was a bit boring to John in his First Year. This year, however, things were going to change. For worse or the better, he didn’t know yet. 

His and Sherlock’s historically first class with Professor Snape was on a Wednesday morning. The dungeons were exceptionally chilly, as if to foreshadow the nature of this new, young teacher. 

John heard rumours from Greg and Carl about Snape. Apparently he didn’t like Gryffindor much and was very cold but methodical in how he taught the subject. Carl also commented on Snape’s dramatical entrances, as if it was a sight to behold, but John just brushed it off. 

The moment the dungeon class doors slammed shut with a bang and a tall man dressed in black swooshed across the room in front of the chalkboard, he suddenly believed Carl. Snape’s black robes fluttered behind him in the small whirlwind that he made with his frantic movements, leaving the Second Years positively stunned. 

John looked at Sherlock, whose face was stuck between wonder and frown, but he quickly smoothed his features into a blank expression, observing. 

Professor Snape went over the names first, ticking off attendance swiftly and precisely. He slammed the registry shut with a thud and his dark eyes swept over the students before him. Similarly to Professor McGonagall, he had the gift to make everyone shut up and pay attention without even trying to - and this was just his third day teaching. 

“As you all probably noticed, I am your new professor for Potions,” Snape said pedantly, his voice barely above whisper, but they could hear him clearly. “I don’t expect many of you to appreciate the fine art of this subject, mainly because I am aware that young wizards and witches these days don’t pay attention to anything that doesn’t include swishing their wands around.”

Sherlock snorted, head ducked, his curls covering the front of his face. Snape didn’t notice, miraculously, and John sighed in relief. He was a tad intimidating, if he were to be honest. Someone in the back row was muttering under their breath, this time catching the professor’s undenying attention. 

Snape threw his head back so that his fringe didn’t block his sight, took a breath in and quietly walked up to the intruders. “Powers and Moriarty, correct?” he peered over them menacingly. The whole class collectively gulped. 

“Yes, sir,” Carl said, voice small. 

Snape’s eyes flicker over the two boys, his gaze nothing short of disgust. John saw how Jim swallowed, casting nervous glances anywhere but on the professor. 

To everyone’s surprise, Snape didn’t yell or degrade them any further. But he didn’t let them off the hook that easy, either. “I will have you know that talking at the same time as I do will not be met with calm the next time you attempt it. I may merely tolerate it now, but I will let it pass seeing as this is our first class you have me as a teacher. Do it again and I’ll have you prepare an antidote to an unknown poison and have you test it afterwards. Understood?”

Carl let out a shaky breath and nodded. Snape seemed satisfied and turned around, heading for the chalkboard. 

“You won’t need your books,” Snape informed them casually. He took out his wand, flicked it rather dramatically and he made move for the board to position it better for everyone to see. If John didn’t know better he would say he _flounced_ around the room like he owned it. 

Instructions for their first potion of the year were neatly written in white chalk on its smooth surface. “Follow the notes and get started.”

John squinted in the dim light of the dungeon room at the text. A Fire Protection Potion. That sounded rather difficult. “Sherlock?”

But the Ravenclaw had already set out to the cupboard to fetch the ingredients needed. John glanced around the room, glad to see others were starting to wake up from the shocked quiet that Snape’s entry had caused. 

Shivers ran down his spine when he realised Snape was watching him intently, his head propped up on his hand. The professor settled behind his desk to tend to some paperwork, possibly grading essays already, but he stopped to see what he and Sherlock were doing. Evidently the eagerness with which the Ravenclaw boy moved about, carrying the ingredients caught his attention. 

_I better get moving_ , John thought, and followed Sherlock’s lead. His friend moved with precision and diligence and John had no doubt his summer experiments (if they had to do with potions) were paying off now. 

The bursting mushrooms being a core ingredient caused a lot more trouble than anticipated since it started swelling up the moment someone’s hand was centimeters from touching it. 

“Stab it first, then slice it up as fast you can,” Sherlock whispered in John’s direction. John watched him do it, mimicking the actions. He put his palm over the dull top of the knife’s blade and chopped as though his life depended on it. After stirring it clockwise until it turned blue they added smelly Salamander Blood that prickled John’s eyes. Then it was time to stir it anti-clockwise until it turned to green, after which they added crushed beige Wartcap Powder. John almost messed up towards the end if it weren’t for Sherlock so vehemently scolding him under his breath to stir clockwise again. 

After endless stirring and stirring, Sherlock’s potion finally turned a rich red colour, golden steam rising from his cauldron. By estimating the approximate difference in minutes that John caught up with him, he should be done now as well. 

When he looked back at his cauldron, he frowned. It wasn’t exactly red like Sherlock’s, it was more of a sunset orange. “But I did everything like you!”

“You were slower,” Sherlock said smugly, winking at him. John stuck out his tongue at the cheeky Ravenclaw just as Snape announced he will have a look at their work. 

He seemed impressed by Sherlock’s work, raising his bushy eyebrows slightly, but he otherwise didn’t acknowledge it. He regarded John’s potion with a huff and then moved to inspect the table behind them. 

“Oh, this is finally going to be exciting!” Sherlock said once they were out of the dungeons. Snape gave them homework to research uses of Flobberworm Mucus until next week. 

“I still don’t get how come we had slightly different results,” John said, readjusting his backpack. “I did exactly what was in the instructions, just like you.”

“Your stirring technique is quite atrocious if I say so myself,” Sherlock said, quirking an eyebrow. 

“There’s a technique for - you know what, never mind. At least Snape didn’t sack me for it unlike he did that Hufflepuff Cykers.”

“Cykers is an idiot,” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. 

“True.” John looked at Sherlock on his right, suddenly realising they were the same height. He managed to grow up during summer! “Hey! I’m as tall as you!”

“Almost,” Sherlock said, hopping onto stairs leading them to the library. They were to meet up with Greg to revise the Levitation Charm before their next Charms class with Professor Flitwick. “You are still missing a centimeter or two.”

John squinted at Sherlock’s curls and got an idea. “Greg can properly measure us! That way he can determine if we really are the same height or not.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the silliness of it, but didn’t protest. Once they saw Greg, John explained what they wanted him to do and they stood back to back. Greg put both his palms on their heads, much to Sherlock’s dislike, and hummed. 

“Yeah, John’s taller,” he said after a minute, stepping back. 

“What? Impossible!” Sherlock bellowed, making students around give him funny looks. He reached into his backpack to draw out ink and quill. “John, go stand against the wall. I’ll mark your height. Gavin is utterly incompetent in this.”

Greg rolled his eyes at the name and insult, and John chuckled. Could it be that the great Sherlock Holmes was behind in something? He obeyed and waited for Sherlock to mark the spot, then they switched position and John did the same. He was sure his grin would stay on for the reminder of the day. 

He was taller by two whole centimeters. “This is better than I expected.”

“You had to cheat.” Sherlock was bewildered. He stared at the two marks on the cold castle wall, gears turning in his brilliant brain. “Seriously, how did you do it?”

“I grew up, Sherlock,” John deadpanned, hands in pockets. Greg besides him bit on his lip to prevent himself from laughing. Sherlock took the loss of upper hand in growth quite badly. 

“It’s alright, mate,” Greg said, “I saw your brother, and he’s pretty tall. You’ll catch up sooner or later.”

It didn’t help. It only made Sherlock groan. Okay, no comparing him to Mycroft, John noted. He propped his right wrist up to see the time. “Guys, we have to get moving if we don’t want to be late. Sherlock?”

Sherlock was pouting, staring at the two ink scratches, still. John put a hand around his shoulders, shaking him good-naturedly. “Listen, you git, we’re twelve! My mom told me about this, and we will get puberty soon and then we’ll basically shoot up like trees, as she put it. We’ll be taller than now, it’s just uneven.”

“It’s inconvenient,” Sherlock muttered, snacthed his backpack and marched towards their next Transfiguration class, leaving John behind, laughing.

~

Nothing exciting seemed to be happening so far. September went by quickly, students getting used to the cycle of Hogwarts once again. The workload they got as Second Years was a lot, but nothing they wouldn’t manage. 

Sherlock tried to find other ways to occupy himself while procrastinating on his essays, save for Potions and Transfiguration, but except for sneaking into the library there wasn’t anything pressing yet for him to seek. 

Well, there was an accident in the middle of October…

The news that he was shorter from John by two centimeters was an honest shock. He always prided himself on the fact that he usually grew up faster than his peers. This allowed him to stare them down, and now? That privilege was taken away from him. Unacceptable. 

So, he sought out a solution in the form of their library. He found a book on potions with a section on aging potions. He learnt that taking a minimal dose of one could technically give his growth sprout a kick in the right direction. 

Naturally, being the person he is, knowing the risks and the dangers of brewing such a potion, he got to making it the minute he finished his research. Safe to say, it didn’t go as planned. 

Upon taking a carefully drafted sip of the potion, he did feel like he grew up an inch. Satisfied with the result, he set out to find John in order for them to compare heights again. When John saw him, however, and the sudden concern twisting his face turned into a surprised grin, he realised something was wrong. 

He was uncontrollably growing a long, long beard. How he hadn’t noticed, he had no idea, but it was embarrassing. John took him to the hospital wing, trying his best not to laugh in his face. Madame Pomfrey didn’t seem too shocked by the sight and gave him an antidote. The beard fell off in under an hour, during which time John graciously didn’t question Sherlock what on earth he was doing - and Sherlock was grateful for that. Only Mycroft meddled in it when he made it back to the Common Room, but he openly told him to shove it and he let it be. 

Other than that, Sherlock was bored to death. 

That was until the first November day.

The day the news that Voldemort had perished flooded everything. 

It was just after Halloween. Owls flew in and out, carrying the Daily Prophet to every soul they spotted - in other words, it was a mess. A cheerful one at that. The wizarding war Voldemort declared on the Ministry and muggles was over and trials of his followers were soon to begin. But most importantly, no one knew what exactly happened that killed Voldemort, just that there was a boy found in Godric’s Hollow. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Orphaned, both parents dead. Betrayed by their maniacal best friend, Sirius Black, or so the papers wrote. People believed the Dark Lord was gone forever. 

For a long time the castle was buzzing with news about every trial that was being conducted by the Ministry. John, who was no more interested in pointless wizarding politics than Sherlock, still asked how the Ministry functioned and all the details. Lestrade took it upon himself to educate him, so that saved Sherlock the necessary dismissal. 

However, the wizarding war being over, Hogwarts lifted their over-the-top restrictions and security, which meant Sherlock could roam the grounds freely (as long as he and John were smart about it). 

So, at the beginning of December when teachers were giving out tests left and right, he decided it was the perfect time to rouse John from his slumber in the middle of the night. 

He sent Henry to deliver the message and waited. Ten minutes later, he heard John stumbling down the stairs, hair dishevelled and eyes almost closed. He had Henry perched on his forearm, intending to let him fly outside the Gryffindor Common Room. 

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock said, uncrossing his legs from where he sat in front of the fireplace. 

“WHAT-” Sherlock muffled John’s exasperation before he woke up the whole tower. 

“I think Mike would appreciate uninterrupted sleep before his Charms test,” Sherlock said, letting go of John. The blond took a deep, steadying breath, hand gripping on Sherlock’s shirt. 

“Honestly, Sherlock!” he growled. “What is it you want? It’s two in the morning! Couldn’t it wait five more hours?”

“Obviously not,” Sherlock tsked, rolling his eyes. John could be painfully slow at times. “Do try to catch up, please. I have something important to show you!”

“Fine, I’ll go,” John huffed, blinking his eyes open by force. “Hold on, how did you even get here?”

“I guessed the password,” Sherlock replied, looking smug.

“Yeah, right. I know you’re amazing with deducing stuff, but the passwords change weekly. They’re random!”

When Sherlock only shrugged as an answer, John heaved a sigh, fetched his jacket and off they went to explore the grounds of Hogwarts. 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” John said, aggressively rubbing his arms to regain some heat in the freezing cold. Sherlock navigated them outside the castle, narrowly missing Peeves and Filch on their way out, ignoring his complaints. 

The night sky was clear but only half-lit by the ever changing moon phase, and stars covered the rest. John watched both their breaths concentrate in little clouds in front of their faces and disappear just as quickly into thin air. 

“You don’t think half my ideas are good, and yet you still come despite the possibility of them being dangerous,” Sherlock said airily, snow crunching under his feet. John picked up his pace, suppressing the urge of bringing up the Aging Potion incident, but that may be too much for the Ravenclaw’s ego now (and John was still taller, ha).

“Well, it’s not like I am going to abandon you at this point,” he said. “You’re stuck with this Gryffindor until the end of your days.”

Sherlock refrained from saying anything, but John caught the little smile curling up Sherlock’s lips. 

“You still haven’t told me what we’re doing outside the castle at half past two in the morning. In _December_ , may I add.”

Sherlock became agitated at the inquiry, in a good, childlike way. His eyes lit up and his mouth started spurting off facts about some kind of a flower that blooms under half-moons in negative temperatures that, atop of looking beautiful, is a very interesting component of certain potions. 

“I believe I saw pucks of the flower sprout near the lake,” Sherlock said, directing them there. He moved fast, and for once John didn’t mind as it made his blood circulation work and he was no longer cold. “There! Do you see it?”

John didn’t at first. But when they came closer to the water and a lonely willow by the edge of the lake, he spotted a rose-like flower with silvery petals shining in the moonlight, reflecting it. Sherlock crouched next to it, peering closer to examine it, whatever criteria he had. John crouched as well, but he was still a little bleary from his interrupted sleep to really appreciate the flower. 

“There’s just one, that’s a disappointment,” commented Sherlock, his fingers inching to pet the petals. John reached out and stopped him before his friend made a mess out of things. 

“Wait! Do you even know if it’s not poisonous?”

“Of course, John, I’m not an idiot.”

“Right, okay.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, I just think you ought to be cautious,” John said, his hand coming up to rub his cold cheek. “You don’t exactly attract luck in these types of situations, you know. Did you research it properly?”

“Naturally,” Sherlock said, irritated. “ _Argentum coruscare_ , or Silver Blaze. It is rare, the chances of it spawning in Hogwarts are one in thousands. That’s why I wanted to take it tonight and conduct experiments on it later.”

John thought about it for a while. “Alright, but isn’t there a way the flower could, I dunno, take roots? That it would grow here every year permanently? I mean, it’s pretty, it would be a shame if you use up the only one around here and possibly never see another one again, no?”

“Hm, I suppose you do have a point,” Sherlock said, weighing the options. He rubbed his chin, fixing his silver gaze on John. “Yes, it would be nice to have this secluded spot as this cultivation point for the species. John, you’re brilliant! A conductor of light, even, just like the flower.”

John blinked at the unusual, but nonetheless outward compliment. “Uhm, thanks?”

“You’re welcome. I may need to read up more on the flower. There’s no point in us staying here longer, and I can see you’re eager to get to bed. At least we don’t have to worry about the flower being discovered, no one else is that adventurous to come here.”

“Yeah, especially in the dead of winter in the wee hours of morning.”

“Precisely.”

They marched back to the castle that threw long shadows over the Forbidden Forest. They slipped in, quiet as mice, ears propped to listen to any sign of Prefects or Filch patrolling the halls. 

Just as they were about to take up the stairs, Sherlock dragged John behind a suit of armour close by. 

“What the-”

“Shh! Someone’s coming!”

John heard the footsteps too, now. They were light, but there were more than one pairs of shoes treading the marble floor. Hushed voices grew louder with every step taken towards their direction. 

John pressed his back into Sherlock standing behind him in order to squash them as much out of possible sight as possible. 

“I don’t believe a child one year old somehow managed to outpower one of the most feared wizards in the whole of England,” said one voice John recognised to be Snape’s. Before he could remark it automatically outloud, Sherlock’s palm stopped him. 

“Many things remain unclear, Severus,” said the voice of Professor Dumbledore. The men stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “After all, the best things reveal themselves last.”

Snape sighed, resigned. He sounded very tired. In fact, ever since Halloween, his demeanor changed for the worse for some reason. He became more easily irritated, he snarled at students that dared to breathe out of the line, and his grading was more strict than Professor McGonagall’s. 

“I thought you would know, of all people.”

“While I wish that were true on some occasions, it is not possible for me to know everything. Do not hold me in such high regard, Severus. I’m only one human,” Dumbledore said light-heartedly. 

John felt his knees wobble, he and Sherlock were semi-crouching behind the suit of shiny armour and if he won’t be able to take a different stance _now_ , he will blow their cover. Sherlock seemed to be thinking the same, and inch by inch the slowly shifted into a more comfortable position. 

“You said you trusted Black,” Snape said, a hint of bitterness in his tone. “And they trusted him, too. If I had any idea…”

“The situation would still result in the same outcome, if only with small changes,” Dumbledore interrupted him sternly. “Best no dwell on it now when it’s still fresh. Harry is being taken care of by his aunt and uncle, where he will remain until he is ready to go to Hogwarts.”

“I can’t say I’m content with your decision here, either,” Snape said, as if reluctantly. “Lily’s sister…”

“She will take care of Harry,” Dumbledore interrupted once again and that was the end of that topic. John looked at Sherlock questioningly.

_They’re talking about the boy from the Daily Prophet?_

_Obviously, I’ll tell you more once we’re out of here,_ Sherlock told him with a pointed look, index finger coming up to his lips to tell John to kindly remain silent.

The Professors set out to walk again, passing by Sherlock and John, who were thankfully unnoticed. John thought they even became statues for a minute for real. 

“Do you think he’s really gone?” Snape asked, coming to a halt. 

There was a moment of silence. “Only time will tell. There were many accidents and incidents revolving around Voldemort, even during his time at Hogwarts. I still have a suspicion that the rumour of opening of the Chamber of Secrets in the castle has been his doing, but I may be a prejudiced teacher. In the end, it doesn’t matter now. What was, was. What will be is yet to come.”

Snape accepted the answer with a grunt and followed Dumbledore further down the hallway. Sherlock and John waited another minute before easing from their places. 

“Did you hear that?” Sherlock whispered immediately to his companion. 

“Yes, but I don’t get it much,” John admitted, rubbing his neck. Well, they were talking about Voldemort and the Boy Who Lived, but they mentioned other names. Lily and Black - he remembered the latter, mostly because he was framed for betraying the Potter family on the faithful night they boy’s parents perished along with the Dark wizard. Was Lily the boy’s mother? 

“The Chamber of Secrets, John!” Sherlock exclaimed, a fiery spark igniting in his bright eyes. “Have you heard of it?”

“Uhm, no.”

“Neither did I. But if it is tied to You-Know-Who, it must be interesting. The man wasn’t powerful because of Zonko’s little tricks, after all - it has to contain strong magic. We have to go to the library!”

“Whoa, slow down!” John said, grabbing Sherlock’s arm. The Ravenclaw looked genuinely confused as to why he was prohibited from going after what he wanted. “First of all, we’re not going anywhere right now - it’s three in the morning! -” - he showed him his wrist watch - “and second, we already sneaked out of the castle, we shouldn't try our luck with the library all in one night. We may get caught!”

“And you most certainly did,” said a silky smooth voice from the top of the moving stairs. Mycroft. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that didn't go as planned.  
> Anyway, as I said earlier, I hope you liked this chapter and the second part may come quite soon :)  
> (I actually have no idea whether I have people who regularly read this, maybe I'm just talking to myself, but if yes, hello, guys! :D)  
> ~comments fill me with determination to write faster than the speed of liiiiiiight (be my friend c:)~
> 
> posted: 20.6.2020  
> word count: 10713
> 
> stay tuned and may Prefects never catch you sneaking out~
> 
> -Vee


	7. Of Silver Blaze and the Chamber of Secrets II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part two of John and Sherlock's Second Year at Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mostly unbeta'd, not britpicked in any way, I'm central European; apologies for typos  
> dedicated to y'all reading ♥ soon we'll be on 800 hits! Thank you all :)  
> EDIT explained in end chapter notes~

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock hissed at his older brother, robes sweeping the cold December floor. 

“Doing my duty as the Head Boy, obviously,” Mycroft replied coldly, and even from top of the staircase Sherlock could see his eyes flare. “Which is to monitor the hallways after dark, brother dear.”

“I don’t care about what you do,” Sherlock snapped, crossing his arms defiantly. Mycroft descended the stairs rather gracefully, and Sherlock barely suppressed the urge to trip him. Maybe he would rip the badge off and throw it to Peeves, too. 

“I am aware, brother-dear. And you also don’t care whether you and your friend are caught trespassing. Of course you didn’t bother to get it through your skull that it is against the school rules to leave the Common Room premises after nine o’clock for Second Years?”

“We didn’t do anything wrong, Mycroft,” Sherlock clipped, his voice rising. He shut up after John grabbed his arm; a warning. This wasn’t the place to bicker. 

“No, you just wandered outside in a cold December night for reasons that elude me,” Mycroft said, sounding more tired than disappointed. Sherlock didn’t care. All his excitement about the Chamber of Secrets was gone thanks to His Nosy Majesty. Sherlock looked at his soaked-through shoes. He suddenly felt very cold, and he noticed that John was shivering. 

He lifted his grey eyes at Mycroft, observing that he looked around somewhat… anxiously? As far as Sherlock knew, they were alone in the corridor, besides his nosy brother. It wasn’t because he was afraid someone else would catch them - after all, he had the most authority out of any student in Hogwarts as of present. 

“You should be happy I am only resorting to decking you House points,” Mycroft said pointedly, looking from one boy to the other. “Ten points off, each. You’re lucky it was me who caught you and not the Professors.”

“You heard them?” Sherlock frowned, ready to inquire. 

“Can we just get to our beds now, please?” John peeped from behind Sherlock, stopping him from further elaboration. The Ravenclaw boy felt a pang of guilt upon hearing the exhaustion in his voice. But they learnt some interesting facts, at least, on top of seeing the Silver Blaze outside. 

Mycroft moved to let them ascend the moving stairs first, stalking right after them. Once they reached the crossway, the Head Boy turned to John, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I trust that you will not wander off on your way to the Gryffindor Tower, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” John slurred, speech impaired with sleep deprivation. The boy peered over Mycroft’s tall figure to smile apologetically at Sherlock, who couldn’t find the strength to return the gesture. Stubborn as he was, sleepiness slowly crept up its way up and over his twelve year old body. He watched John disappear in the shadows of the corridor until Mycroft tugged at his sleeve and led him toward the Ravenclaw Tower. 

Once inside, his brother crouched in front of him, gaze stern but concerned. “How many times have you sneaked out already with John?”

“None of your business,” Sherlock said, failing to suppress a yawn. He hated being the subject of Mycroft’s scrutiny. Have others felt like this when he deduced them? He’ll have to ask John tomorrow at breakfast. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft started, sighing. He himself looked tired. “I know you are at age when you have no desire to follow guidance of any sort, but this is serious. You can’t sneak out of the castle -”

“Why not?” Sherlock interrupted, failing to put enough anger into his words. He had reached his limit for the day. “You know well as anyone else with half their brain capacity functioning that Hogwarts is the safest place in the United Kingdom. The Death Eaters are awaiting trials and are being hounded by Aurors and the Ministry, so the world will be safer now, as some students had put it. There’s no point in being worried.”

“There’s no point in going outside the castle either, by your logic,” Mycroft said patiently. “What is there to see during the night?”

Sherlock fell silent at that. He wanted to tell Mycroft about the Silver Blaze, but after such intrusion he felt like protecting it as he considered only John being worthy of knowing about the flower excluding Sherlock. But… Mycroft acted strangely. His brother, who expressed arrogance and had a high sense of responsibility would not bat an eye to tell at him if a Professor stumbled upon them. Of course, he would merely point out he caught his brother trespassing, but he would do so confidently. Tonight, something was off.

“You’re afraid,” Sherlock muttered, searching Mycroft’s face in the moonlight. His brother’s eyes closed for the duration of inhaling a deep breath. 

“We’re all afraid of something,” he replied cryptically. He stood up, prodding Sherlock to his dorm room. “You should probably be more afraid of repercussions if you keep undergoing similar adventures. Go to sleep, Sherlock.”

Sherlock avoided Mycroft’s touch, dancing out of his reach. “You’ve changed,” he accused Mycroft, storming into his room, closing the doors behind him.. 

He felt a little hurt that he didn’t confide in him. They were closer before Mycroft went to Hogwarts, before Sherlock began his studies. With every passing day, Sherlock was losing him to the passing of time and age. As arrogant and distant as they both appeared, that was simply not true - it was a defense mechanism. A family trait, if you would. But to these two siblings it came more naturally than to others in the vast family. What was going on? Sherlock knew Mycroft was troubled, and it wasn’t because of his studies. That was never a problem. Then what was it? He hated not knowing. Years ago, he would tell Sherlock without moment’s hesitation. Sherlock steeled himself. Two could play the game. If Mycroft chose not to tell him, he wouldn’t either. 

Deciding on his course of action, he let his eyelids fall shut and his mind to be overtaken by dreams. 

~

The rest of their school days went by smoothly. Sherlock avoided Mycroft as best he could, while John kept pestering him about eating and studying useless subjects such as Astronomy. Who cared how many planets there were? Who cared about synastry and birth charts? _Dull_. 

On top of everything, during their ride back to London for the holidays, John stuck a wrapped present in Sherlock’s hands, grinning widely. Sherlock glared daggers at the Gryffindor, awkwardly holding the piece of… _something_ he didn’t even ask for. He inspected it from all possible angles, shaking the package, listening to its insides (no ticking, no scratching) and sniffing it. Nothing distinctive, just plain paper. Boring. Most probably a book, judging by the rectangular shape and moderate weight. 

But what kind of book?

He dug his fingers under one fold of the wrapping paper only for John to tut and stop him. 

“Not until Boxing Day,” he warned him, holding up his pinky finger. Sherlock hitched an eyebrow in silent amusement, rolled his eyes and shook his pinky with his own. 

“I already deduced it,” he announced, shoving the present in his bag. “You’ve got me a book.”

“Are you sure?” John smiled wickedly, resting his chin on his fist. His eyes twinkled playfully, as if daring Sherlock to elaborate. “Could be anything.”

Sherlock sighed, taking the bait. “First of all, the shape really couldn’t be more telling. Second, the weight itself is common among books, it is distinctive. Trust me, I experimented with it during summer. It’s a smaller book, but not a pocket edition. Slightly larger, but in your range of being able to pay for it with your allowance. I can’t be absolutely sure what it is when it comes to its contents, but I’d say your nagging me about Astronomy essays has a role in it. You were insistent on getting my marks higher, so it has to be about that cursed subject.”

John’s smile didn’t wither at all while listening to his friend speak. He grew more amused, intrigued. Maybe even proud, but the slyness of it stayed. His mouth twitched when Sherlock finished. 

“I won’t say yes or no, because that would give it away,” he said, “but it still could be anything.”

“Don’t tempt me to rip it open this instant,” Sherlock grumbled, glaring at his bag, then at John. He fought hard to suppress the smile twitching at his lips. “Why did you bother?”

“With giving you a present?”

“Yes. I told you I don’t like Christmas.”

“That’s exactly why.”

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock frowned, feeling lost. He never had anyone besides his immediate family give him presents. Some from Mycroft have been meaningful and practical, like the enchanted binoculars that spotted magical insects easily. But other than that, the traditions have always been rather oppressive. Especially when he was forced to spend time with their extended family and the spawns of Grindelwald his mother’s cousins proudly called their offspring. Christmases were loud, obnoxious, and definitely not ‘calm’ or ‘wonderful’ as others described it. 

John picked up on his spaced out stare, waving a hand in front of his eyes to get his attention. “Earth to Sherlock? You alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he snapped at John, regretting his tone, somewhat. 

John put up hands in surrender. “Sorry, you just looked a little lost. Well, I gave you a present because one: it will be practical for you, I hope. Two: I like giving. Three: ‘tis the time of the year where we are sort of mindful of other people and I thought I could give you a present just because. But combined with your disliking it, and a couple of other things, I thought this present would make you chuckle at least.”

Sherlock was still puzzled. They knew each other for a year and a half, should they be giving each other presents? Was this a thing? He suddenly felt ashamed for not getting John anything. “I didn’t get you a present.”

“I didn’t expect one,” John said, winking. His smile softened at Sherlock’s thoughtful look. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I don’t mind, you know. I just really want you to see that Christmas can be fun.”

“Good luck with that,” Sherlock puffed, snorting. He stretched his thin legs out between John’s with no regard for his space. The other three boys in their compartment fell asleep; Greg with his mouth open, Carl leaning on his shoulder groggily, and Jim curled up on his side next to Sherlock. 

“What are you doing over the holidays?” John asked after a while, running a hand through his dirty blond hair. It grew longer during his stay at Hogwarts. Right now, it was the perfect length. 

“Visiting our extended family,” Sherlock grunted, eyes rolling violently. He never liked travelling. His leave from Hogwarts meant he was supposed to be at home. _Home_. Not bounce from one snobbish, wizarding household to the next. “It’s tedious.”

“I can see the excitement in your face,” John laughed, but sobered quickly. “Oh no, I don’t know if I can have Henry at home!”

“Send him to my place,” Sherlock said, shrugging. “He knows where to go if you tell him. He’s always welcome to stay as long as needed.”

“Really? Won’t it be too much? What about your parents?”

“They don’t care, we have plenty of owls coming in. Both my parents work at the Ministry, they’re used to it. I mean it John, no one will mind Henry.”

John beamed at the reassurance. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

The rest of the ride was silent until Greg woke up, chatting with John about his plans for the holidays. Minutes later, Carl and Jim joined too,yawning and stretching their limbs. Sherlock didn’t participate unless John or Greg prompted him to; Carl was still weary of him after his deduction at the library, even though Jim seemed to be long past that. 

At last when they arrived at King’s Cross, they all bid each other farewell and ( _duly_ ) wished everyone a ‘ _Merry Christmas!_ ’ before joining their respective families. John, however, lingered a second longer behind with Sherlock, grabbing him by the wrist. 

“Keep me updated about the Chamber of Secrets or how it is called,” he said, squeezing Sherlock’s wrist lightly and then he darted off. 

_Oh_. He’d almost forget what with the Mycroft fiasco and late-night studying for the year’s last essays and tests. That cheered Sherlock up a little - he’d sniff out every viable book on the subject in their family library at home, mark his words. 

A firm hand steered him towards the side of the platform and out into the muggle London station. Mycroft. He carried his luggage, prompting Sherlock to follow him. He did, although reluctantly. Some of his initial anger had dissipated, but he still found himself to sulk. As if he did anything wrong by sneaking off with John!

“Are you aware of where we’re going?” Mycroft asked, voice low, eyes focused on paving a way out of the crowded platforms. 

“Home, where else?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, but after that? Did Mummy tell you?”

“We are to spend two days at Grimmauld Place number Twelve.”

“Three, actually.”

“What for?” Sherlock’s brows furrowed. He stopped, glaring holes into Mycroft’s head. He delivered the worst news. That was a bad omen.

“Walburga is feeling exceptionally lonely this year,” Mycroft said airily. His eyebrows raised slightly as he took an icy breath, winter wind ruffling his auburn hair. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“I didn’t know you to be so sentimental.”

“I’m not, but Mummy and Dad are.”

Sherlock sighed, forcing his half-frozen legs to move forward and follow his older brother out. He was old enough to Apparate them now, which made Sherlock annoyed. Stupid rules prohibiting him from mastering these skills ahead of time… 

“Hold onto me,” Mycroft instructed him once they were in an abandoned alley just outside the train station. Sherlock intertwined their elbows, as much as he hated to be in his brother’s proximity right now. Soon he felt the world around him twisting, knotting his stomach and dizzying his head until he found himself standing firmly in their home’s foyer with both feet and body part intact. 

What followed was a thorough inspection by Mummy, who kissed both her boys after not seeing them for months, a hug from their Dad, and a tackling by Redbeard, whom Sherlock greeted with reciprocated happiness and belly rubs. 

Later that night, when Sherlock was finally alone, he unpacked his robes and clothes, remembering John’s present. He still felt bad for not getting John a present as well, but how could he know? He surely wouldn’t start now. Why would he need a holiday to give out presents and gifts? No matter.

He carefully put the gift on his unmade bed, kicking off his shoes. He plopped down on the soft mattress, Redbeard sniffing around, wagging his tail against his bedside table. He tore the wrapping, only to discover that the actually present was wrapped in another layer of awfully decorated Christmas paper. But the difference was - there was a letter attached. 

Sherlock took it and opened it, recognising John’s handwriting immediately. 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Merry Christmas! Look, I know you are rolling your eyes right now -_

“Precisely, John,” Sherlock murmured, corners of his mouth twisting upwards.

_\- but bear with me. For me Christmas is about giving something the other person may find personal, but in a good way. And also interesting. So, I used my limited creative powers and Charms to make… this. You probably think it’s a book. Is it? You’ll have to find out. But not until Boxing Day!_

Sherlock resisted another urge to roll his eyes into oblivion beyond his skull. As if words were going to stop him. John will never know if he opens it right then and there. How could he? That boy barely notices his shoelaces being untied when he walks, this would be an exceptional deduction for him to make or even assume. That is, if Sherlock’s wisdom didn’t grow on him over the holidays or so…

Determined not to wait, Sherlock grabbed the rectangular package and turned it over. The paper was glued together, but the moment he slid his finger under the folds, Mycroft barged in unannounced. 

“I am to check whether you… What are you doing?” he asked, perplexed by Sherlock’s hunched over figure. Sherlock must’ve looked like an overgrown doxy. Minus the wings and fangs and… body structure. 

“Nothing,” Sherlock said blankly, slotting the package under his pillow. 

“Was that a present?” Mycroft pried, mouth pulling into an intrigued smile. “Don’t tell me you’re engaging in ‘such mortal customs’ as you called it?”

“I didn’t give anything back in return,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms. “What’s it to you?”

“I’m just concerned,” his brother shrugged innocently, hands in pockets. He looked smug. “My, my. John Watson is thawing the ice! Should I expect a present as well?”

“You don’t deserve any.”

“And you do?”

“Apparently.”

“If you think so,” Mycroft mused, stepping into the room. Redbeard walked up to him to get his chin scratched, to which Mycroft obliged. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock glared at the two of them. That was treachery, Redbeard coming up to Mycroft right now. 

“Well, your little migration to the castle ground at the beginning of December could easily put you on the Naughty List,” Mycroft replied easily. He stood up from where he was kneeling, fixing Sherlock with a pointed stare. “I didn’t tell our parents about it and I don’t plan to. But don’t test my patience, brother-dear. I may not be so gracious in the future.”

“What’s it to you? I already told you - and you know that - that Hogwarts is the safest place where we could be!”

“There are rules in place, Sherlock. You’re getting repetitive now.”

“So are you. Anyway, you wanted something before you disturbed me. What is it?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him, lips pursed into a thin line. “Mummy sent me to make sure you’re packed for tomorrow. You obviously aren’t.” He took out his wand and flicked it, Sherlock’s wardrobe opening, his clothes floating around the room as he arranged his trunk to be ready. “Now you are. We’re leaving at eight. Please be awake by then. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can pretend it’s going to be over.”

“You know that’s just wishful thinking?” Sherlock snorted, glancing up at his brother. “Walburga will probably rant about her pure-blooded ideals while no one else is allowed to oppose her.”

Mycroft’s gaze softened a little, though he made no move towards Sherlock who was visibly troubled by it. “Neither of us believes in that garbage, you know that, Sherlock. Not Mummy, not Dad, nor you or I. But it is too risky to say anything at this point. Try to refrain from standing up to her. Please.”

Sherlock let out a deep, disappointed sigh. He never understood the rift between pure-bloods, half-bloods, or muggle-born wizards. What was the point? They all had magical powers. It shouldn’t matter who held the wand, but _how_ they held it. And now that he had John in his life, a muggle-born, he felt protective. Overprotective, even. He wouldn’t stand if he had to listen to belittling comments of the extended, condescending family. 

“I won’t promise anything,” he said at last, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Redbeard took it as a cue to jump on the bed and cuddle. Sherlock had a sudden urge to ask Mycroft what it was that bothered him at Hogwarts. They were safe here, too, weren’t they? He turned his head to the side, meeting Mycroft’s dark brown eyes. 

“Mycroft, what are you scared of? You’ve…. You’ve changed since you’re a Seventh Year.”

His brother’s eyebrows hitched up, then furrowed, then the wrinkles on his forehead smoothed. Sherlock knew that face well. It was his mask of indifference, yet again. He turned on his heels, heading outside. He pocketed his wand, sighing. 

“Nothing of your concern, brother-dear,” Mycroft said quietly, halting in the doorframe. He spared Sherlock one last look. The light in the hallway cast shadows over half his face. He looked ghostly in a way. “You’re welcome, by the way. You could pack yourself next time.”

And that was the end of it.

~

Christmas dinners at the Black house were always pompous and over the top, even after Walburga’s husband’s diminishing and Regulus’ death. Now that the Wizarding War was over with and Voldemort was gone, it was rumoured that her eldest son, Sirius, served him all along. During his last stretch to reach his Dark Lord, he killed a trusted friend of the Potter family leaving nothing but a finger and twelve muggles. The latter especially pleased Walburga. Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor when he arrived at Hogwarts during the seventies, which displeased his pure-blooded, mostly Slytherin family. Moreover, his friendship with another Gryffindor and less-than-adequate students and people caused him to be erased from the family tree. Now, however, a killing spree seemed to have redeemed him.

“I knew he had it in him,” Mycroft heard Walburga say to a member of the Malfoy family. “After all this time, he was a true Black.”

The eldest Holmes son grit his teeth. He didn’t have the courtesy of meeting Sirius Black - the man was banished to say the least, and from what he had gathered, he wouldn’t be thrilled to see his family either. But if anything, he pitied the man if he became a ‘true Black’. Mycroft found that such statements were quite cowardly, coming from Walburga. 

He excused himself from the sitting room, not knowing where he would go exactly. Grimmauld Place was bigger on the inside, naturally. But there was just so much space to fit a number of extended relatives without running out of oxygen.

Mycroft ascended the stairs, careful not to be too loud. He got better over the years in sneaking up on people. He always gave their parents fright, much to his amusement. And Sherlock’s, when he was younger. Things were simpler back then. More careless and full of childhood oblivion.

He found himself to be standing at the doors of his and Sherlock’s shared bedroom. The doors were slightly ajar, the lamps inside turned on. His father and Sherlock were talking amicably, per usual. Sherlock found great endearment in chatting with their Dad, just like Mycroft did. 

George Holmes was a busy man, but he made sure to be there for his sons during the holidays. At least the shorter ones. He oftentimes read bedtime stories to the boys when they were children, and he indulged them in their hobbies. And while Sherlock’s were a bit more cryptic than Mycroft’s, that still didn’t stop their father from taking interest. He was, after all, the first to take Sherlock out take samples of… whatever it was for his ‘experiments’. Mycroft didn’t see much sense in it, but it made Sherlock happy. So why rain on his parade?

Mycroft leaned closer, careful not to creak the floor. He wouldn’t call this eavesdropping, just… uninvited overhearing of shared information. 

“Anything you wanted to talk to be about, Sherlock?” their father said eagerly. He enjoyed mental sparing with his sons. 

There was silence for a few seconds, and Mycroft thought they found him out. But then Sherlock spoke, “What do you know about the Chamber of Secrets, Dad?”

“The Chamber of Secrets?” the man repeated, and from his tone it was obvious he immediately searched his memory for any information on that topic. “Where did you hear about it?”

Of course, Mycroft had an idea. He heard Sherlock exclaim about the Chamber to John on the night he caught them outside their dormitories. But where exactly he caught that, he unfortunately didn’t find out. Not that Sherlock was willing to share that information. He withdrew from Mycroft rather lot, lately. He didn’t blame him. 

“In school,” Sherlock said evasively, shifting on the bed. “An older student mentioned it in passing. They mentioned You-Know-Who in connection with it.”

“Ah, yes. Well, what we have are rumours,” Dad said, chuckling. “There was a scandal regarding this a few decades ago. Apparently a student in Hogwarts opened the Chamber and it killed another pupil. He was expelled, I think.”

“Who was it?” Mycroft could imagine Sherlock’s expression: wide eyed, attentive, curious. He often held his breath for the duration of their Dad’s speeches, too. 

“The name escapes me. But I think he stayed on the grounds and worked or works on the premises of Hogwarts now. Of course, no one could directly pinpoint the opening of Chamber to him - according to a legend, Salazar Slytherin constructed it. This was when the founders argued who would be coming to the school. 

“Slytherin and Gryffindor clashed heads especially, as my grandmother would call it. The former wanted only pure-bloods to attend, to preserve the purest magic. He found mixing the wizarding blood with muggles as something below him.”

“That’s a pile of nonsense,” Sherlock said, tone defending. 

Their father chuckled again. “We know that. But since Slytherin was outvoted on this front, he decided to retaliate against the rest of the founders by creating a secret chamber. It is said he put a monster in there…”

“But that’s impossible! Hogwarts has charms protecting it!”

“He was a founder of it,” father reminded him, and Sherlock clammed up. “The magic back then was different. And besides, it is a legend. But the point is, Slytherin put the monster there to be obey his calls. Apparently he wanted it to protect Hogwarts from muggle borns, but only his heir would be able to open the chamber and release the monster after he was long gone.

“What is more, the castle was searched thoroughly many times, and no Chamber of Secrets was found. It could have been a bluff on Slytherin’s part to have the other founders relent, but that didn’t work out.”

“But why would someone try to open it hundreds of years after?” Sherlock asked, the mattress creaking under him as he sat up. “How would the person know they are an heir of Slytherin?”

“That’s a good question, son,” Mycroft heard their Dad say. “They probably didn’t. The whole fiasco was faulty, looking back. As I said, I don’t know much. I wasn’t even born that year. But after investigating the matters, no chamber was found, no monster was going around and killing students, except for one unfortunate girl. The whole thing was an accident. 

“The person in question who was expelled wasn’t even Slytherin, I think.”

“Therefore they couldn’t even hypothetically open it, because Salazar Slytherin was an orthodox pure-blood,” Sherlock finished, sounding satisfied. Then, his voice changed to an alarmed state once more.”But wait, who investigated it? The Ministry? The Professors? I don’t think there were competent people looking into the matter.”

“Too late to worry about that now,” Dad said, half-laughing. He let out a sigh. “The system isn’t flawless, and I’m sure there was more that could be done. Even today, a word from someone in a higher position is valued more than the truth.”

“I bet I could solve it,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft could practically hear the cogs turning in his head. Oh boy. 

To add fuel to the ever-growing fire that was Sherlock’s curiosity, their father agreed. “I don’t doubt it,” he said airily. “You’re clever, Myc and you.”

“I’m cleverer that him,” Sherlock said, pouting for sure. Mycroft took that as a cue to barge in without seeming like he listened all this time.

“I heard someone doubting my intelligence?” he said, narrowing his eyes at the two of them. Their father was sitting on Mycroft’s bed, Sherlock on his, both facing each other. 

“Of course you did,” Sherlock grumbled, the whites of his eyes appearing when he rolled them. Such a habit. “Don’t you have people to talk to? To ensure your position at the Ministry?”

“Be nice, boys,” their Dad said, false-mockingly, a smile threatening to taint his mouth. “Well, off I go, I guess. Your mother needs help dealing with the Malfoys and the Lestrange. You know they need the useless blabber of reassurance now that the trials are taking place. I loathe it, but we can’t do anything about it right now.”

He left, leaving his sons to their own devices. Sherlock plopped down onto the mattress again like a starfish. Mycroft paid him no attention, not really wanting to divulge the fact that he listened to their conversation. It was a shame, really, how they started drifting apart. He hated it. But there were things Sherlock couldn’t know. Not with his quick-to-act personality. As much as he stood behind the fact that Hogwarts was safe, well… 

Bad things happened. All the time. Insane people roamed the hallways, some know it, some don’t. And there were bigger things happening at the castle presently than Mycroft wanted to admit even to himself. 

Part of that was the reason he distanced himself from Sherlock and focused himself on his studies. It was nothing but enforcing their defense mechanism. That wasn’t new. But the _why_ was more sinister than he would ever have anticipated. And he would never put his brother at risk. 

Sherlock of course picked up on it. The how was simple: Sherlock picked up clues about people and his surroundings and even subconsciously interpreted them as deductions. And he was getting better by the year. Fortunately, he can’t read minds. Though Mycroft will keep an eye out if he ever tries Legilimency. World knows it isn’t ready for Sherlock Holmes as an Legilimens. 

Mycroft walked over to his suitcase and took out a burgundy jumper, a Christmas gift from their grandmother. He took off his suit jacket and put it on instead; it was warmer. 

“Anything new from John?” Mycroft asked, not sure whether breaching this subject would yield results. Sherlock was still apprehensive when it came to the Gryffindor. 

“No. His owl is staying at our house for a few days, I assume,” Sherlock said, bored. His dead stare threw daggers at the ceiling. 

“Naturally. Presumably due to muggles visiting.” Sherlock hummed noncommittally. Mycroft wasn’t too familiar with the Watson household, maybe he should change that. It didn’t seem that John planned to orbit out of Sherlock’ periphery any time soon. Once he starts working, it will get easier to gain information. 

“Do you have any new experiments?” Mycroft continued, not hoping for an answer. All this small talk made his skin crawl, as it did Sherlock’s. But he cared, so he had to make an effort. Even if to alleviate some of Sherlock’s suspicions and doubts.

“I may,” Sherlock mused. He didn’t explain further, and Mycroft decided he would keep quiet. 

After all, having Sherlock on a different scent entirely may put him out of danger’s way. This Chamber of Secrets business didn’t sound so dire anymore. Mycroft could dig around as well, inconspicuously ask Professor Flitwick about it, throw clues in his brother’s way… Anything to keep his nose out of Mycroft’s business. Things may calm down after he graduates - hopefully. Maybe going off to the Ministry will draw his rival’s attention elsewhere than on Hogwarts and his pressure point. That seemed like the right course of action. Surely at least until he finds a solution to deal with it without intervention. 

Yes. Puzzles it is.

~

Holidays came and went. Christmas passed, and so did New Years. John’s time at home was uneventful, but calm. Nothing disrupted the atmosphere - safe for Harry’s general sulkiness around their parents, for whatever reason that eluded John. She got snappy with him if he asked what was going on, so he gave up. 

Henry came just after Boxing Day, on his own. John’s father had his colleagues from work over for the Christmas dinner, so an owl in the house hooting was out of the question. Thankfully Sherlock reassured John it would be alright to send his owl to his house, wherever that was in England. 

Speaking of which, he was quite curious what Sherlock would think of his present. He had Mike Stamford help him, seeing as he liked Charms, but it was a really simple gift, really. He already thought of ways on how to improve it. Maybe he could use it to see his progress over the years? That didn’t sound half as bad, actually…

But now that they were back at Hogwarts, things moved quickly. John and Sherlock resumed their usual schedules, having a bit more time to spend together in the library since Greg joined the Hufflepuff Quidditch team and they had training session in full force. Greg even asked John to try out for Gryffindor, but he dismissed him. He never maneuvered broom that well. Last year’s mandatory flying classes were well and good, and he managed, but outside of those he had to means to practice. If he ever suggested such a thing at home, he’d get shut down by his father. And they didn’t have the money to buy a broom in the first place. Best John could do was wait. 

John also noticed Sherlock’s antsiness once they returned in January. Naturally, it was about the Chamber of Secrets. Sherlock retold everything he came to discover through his father to John, excited by the idea of solving how it really was. All he needed was more data. And John was more than happy to help, as long as it didn’t interfere with their studies. He still made it a point to drag Sherlock to the Great Hall for breakfasts, lunches, and dinners in between their constant research and homework, much to Sherlock’s dismay. 

“I don’t understand why I have to attend such tedious social conventions,” he hissed one day in February as John shoved a mug of hot chocolate into his freezing hands. The relieved gasp he let out betrayed him. 

“It’s cold, and you need energy,” John said, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock’s trembling hands. “How do you expect to get taller than me when you don’t eat?” That earned him a glare. John didn’t hide his laugh, clasping Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sorry. But Mycroft is as tall as a tree, you’ll shoot up soon. I may as well enjoy my reign while it lasts.”

“Whatever,” Sherlock snapped, sipping his hot cocoa angrily, which made John giggle. 

They were due for Potions and Charms essays. Sherlock enjoyed Snape’s classes tremendously, even though the Professor grew colder by the day. Especially Gryffindors were on the receiving end of his typical grumpiness - which meant they were easily targeted for being docked points. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuffs were spared of Snape’s wrath as long as they behaved, and Slytherins were put on a pedestal. All this disappointed John - shouldn’t the teaching staff be unsided? 

Sherlock, however, became Snape’s star student, even though he didn’t express it. It was visible, though, that the Professor enjoyed having a highly competent and enthusiastic student in his class. What points Sherlock lost with his sharp tongue during other classes, he regained during Potions, and sometimes Transfiguration. 

John marvelled at how hyped and lazy at the same time his friend could be. It drove him crazy that Sherlock couldn’t be bothered by subjects like Charms; they were interesting, but not as much as the other two. It was also unfair that while John worked his pants off during History of Magic - not falling asleep was a skill he worked hard to achieve - Sherlock simply memorised chunks of information in the span of an hour, acing the tests. Then, he ‘deleted’ the information, deeming it unimportant.

“How can you just _delete_ stuff?” John asked him over lunch before their next Transfiguration class. He stuffed his mouth with potato salad. God, he was _starving_. Last night he finished his Charms essay late into the night and he missed breakfast because he overslept. He barely made it to Herbology. 

Sherlock scoffed at him as though he just insulted his mother. “I never store useless information for long. Why should I?”

“So you just bin it?” John made a movement with his wrist as though he threw a basketball. Sherlock looked at him strangely.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“The…” He repeated the gesture, awkwardly. John laughed, putting his fork down. 

“I dunno, it’s just… I didn’t have to do it, it just helped me visualise it. It reminded me of basketball.” Sherlock’s face was blank, he bit his lower lip. “Oh, you don’t know. Muggle sport. I’ll show you how to play it one day.”

“I don’t even like wizarding sports, I don’t think I’ll be any good,” Sherlock said, glaring into his empty cocoa cup. For a second he seemed surprised he drank it all. He let John refill it for him. 

“Well, in case you grow up - which you will, don’t give me that look - your height will come in handy.”

“If you say so,” Sherlock muttered, sipping more of the sweet liquid. 

Later on, John was dozing off at the library, Potions book on magical uses of dandelions and daisies in hand. First, he eyelids grew heavy. Then, with each blink, his breathing steadied. And last, his head dipped with a soft _thud_ on the stale pages, a low groan forming in his throat. The past week has been extra exhausting. And Mike informed him it was going to get even worse. 

But for now, just a few minutes of calm…. 

“JOHN!” 

John’s head snapped up, disoriented, eyes unfocused and darting around the bookshelves. Sherlock plopped down next to him, shaking him by the shoulders. “John! Are you listening to me?”

“Well - I am now!” John growled, swatting Sherlock’s hands away. His ears rang unpleasantly. He rubbed his face to shake out the bare residue of a nap Sherlock had robbed him of. “Be quiet or the librarian will throw us out!”

An aggressive _hush_ proved his point. Sherlock huffed a laugh, but resorted to whispering. “I wanted to talk to you about the Chamber of Secrets.”

That definitely got John’s attention. His brows hitched up, he let out a slow, deep breath and straightened his hurting back. He’s going to have a hunch with so much studying. Sherlock, who picked up on his discomfort, smiled slyly. 

“I told you it’s not worth studying so much,” he said smugly. John kicked him under the table, making him jump and rub the sore spot. “I should catalogue this: don’t tease a sleepy Watson - they kick.”

“Don’t be smart with me, you Ravenclaw,” John yawned, stretching out, his joints popping. “What about the Chamber? I thought it’s a legend?”

“Supposedly,” Sherlock corrected, taking out his notebook. John’s tired eyes didn’t make the effort to decipher his scribble of a handwriting. From distance it looked like diagonal tornadoes plunging fields. “But all legends are based on a bit of truth.”

“Yeah, you’re right. So, what is it?”

“Well, I researched every single book about the History of Hogwarts,” Sherlock began, taking a breath as he began his rapid speech, “there is merely the occasional mention of the Chamber, but all of it is in the range of ‘legends’ and ‘interesting facts’ which is boring. Not one piece of lore about the place that may have been investigated deeper. In other words, the book have been written by dull idiots. So, I asked our librarian, but she was of no use either, pointing me to books I’ve already read _thoroughly_ and that is unacceptable. I asked Mummy to send me books she deems worthy of our investigation and time, but there was NOTHING!”

Another angry hush from the librarian a few bookshelves over made him roll his eyes dramatically. John his his amusement behind his clenched fist on which he propped his chin. Sherlock flipped through his notes on the issue of the Chamber, lost in thought. John peered closer, squinting at the atrocious, hurried writing. 

“You said that a student was expelled in the forties and they blamed him for opening the Chamber and letting the monster out to hunt muggle-borns,” John said, sending a shiver down his spine. That made him paranoid for a few hours the first time he heard that. 

“Yes, but they were idiots for doing so,” Sherlock said, looking at John. “The expelled student in question was a Gryffindor, and according to the legend, only Slytherin’s heir can open it. And Slytherin, being centered on his narrow-minded, pure-blooded idea and his dislike for Godric Gryffindor would certainly ensure that was the only safe way to manipulate the Chamber.”

“Yes, okay - but slow down and take a breath,” John said, nudging Sherlock’s knee. He had a bad habit of getting himself worked up and forgetting to breath until he was gasping for air. Thankfully, Sherlock listened this time and took a while to calm his erratic breath. “So the student couldn’t have done it - why expel him?”

“He raised an Acromantula under his bed,” Sherlock said. John lifted an eyebrow. 

“Don’t get ideas.”

“You’re no fun, John,” Sherlock pouted fakely, snickering when John smacked him with the notebook. “It could be fun!”

“Getting expelled isn’t fun,” John lectured, setting the notebook down. He knew Sherlock was just winding him up, but he wouldn’t put it past him to attempt such a thing. 

“We wouldn’t get expelled. Mycroft would make sure of it.” 

“As long as it does not include sneaking out of the castle after midnight,” John snorted, and soon they were both laughing. This earned them a stern glance from the librarian, followed by their being kicked out of the library for the rest of the day. 

They were still in stitches when Greg bumped into them in the corridor. 

“You two alright?” he looked them over, somewhat concerned, but he was used to them by now. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” John said, sobering up a little. Greg’s cheeks were flushed; he was fresh out of Quidditch practice. “How’s the Hufflepuff team looking like?”

“Not bad,” he shrugged, walking with them down to the Great Hall to resume their homework. “I am getting better as a Keeper. Maybe we’ll win the last game against Ravenclaw. Hey, Sherlock - how do you feel about the prospects of your team?”

Sherlock couldn’t, for the lack of a better term, give a toss about Quidditch. He turned his head to give Greg a condescending look, to which he responded by raising his arms up in defeat. 

“Yeah, whatever - it’s dull for you,” Greg sighed, averting his gaze to watch his steps down the stairs. “How come I forgot? Oh, Great Sherlock, can you forgive me? I’ll never repeat the same mistake again!”

Sherlock looked puzzled and refrained from saying anything. Greg laughed, high-fiving John while Sherlock glared. Much to Sherlock’s amusement, Greg tripped on an illusionary step and fell with a yell on the last two steps. John and Sherlock lost it again.

“Oi, fuck off, mate,” Greg swore, eliciting a gasp from John. 

“Profanity!” he said, mockingly shocked, pointing a finger at the Hufflepuff. 

“What, you don’t swear?”

“Mom told me I can swear when I’m fifteen and up,” John said, helping Greg up. 

“Mate, she’s not here to hear you. You can say ‘fuck’ anytime you want.”

“Don’t be absurd, Graham,” Sherlock cut in, lips quirking. “John’s nothing but loyal, even if given the freedom to act on it. Typical Gryffindor.”

“Yeah and you’re nothing but a smartarse Ravenclaw,” Greg said, smiling. They sat behind the mostly empty Gryffindor table. John saw Carl reading by himself, Jim nowhere to be seen. “And stop calling me Graham.”

“Duly noted.”

“Hey Sherlock, have you told Greg about the Chamber of Secrets?” John asked, taking out his parchment and quill with ink. He missed ballpoint pens. 

“I didn’t and I don’t want to. We don’t need any additional people.”

“Don’t be a prat.”

“What about the Chamber of Secrets? Where did you guys hear of it?” Greg chirped in, interested. His eyes flickered from John to Sherlock and back. 

“Wait, you know about it?” John asked, baffled. It didn't seem to be widely known among students nowadays, seeing as it happened forty years ago. 

“My grandpa and dad work for the Ministry, both as Aurors,” Greg said, resigned. It was no secret his father had been reinforcing the same ideals for his son, too, pushing him to get the best grades possible. It was stressful for Greg. “My grandpa sometimes tells me about the cases he investigated. This wasn’t his, but a colleague’s.”

Sherlock’s interest piqued. “What did your grandfather say?”

“Ah, now you want me to talk?” Greg nudged him with an elbow. He looked conspiratorially at John, mischievous smile painting tilting his lips. “Why should I?”

“Because you’re a Hufflepuff?”

“Try again.”

“No.”

“Then I won’t talk,” Greg smiled sunnily, turning to his Charms book. John watched Sherlock fidget next to Greg, barely concealing his entertainment. Greg tried very hard not to look smug, but he failed. 

“I asked McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout about the Chamber,” Sherlock said, getting a noncommittal ‘hm’ from Greg who pretended he was focused on a page on Shrinking Charm, a revision for their end-of-the-year test. “All of them, especially McGonagall, scolded me for prying.”

“That’s shocking.”

“Humour me. I tried to find out who the expelled student was. All we found out in the past five months that he was a Gryffindor - I knew that since Christmas - and that he raised Acromantulas in the castle. But he couldn’t be the one to open the Chamber, he wasn’t an heir of Slytherin. But talking about it years after is ‘divulging private information’, ‘insensitive’ and whatnot…”

“And what’s your point?” Greg said airily, finally looking at the restless Sherlock. The Ravenclaw look to John for backup, but he hid behind his Potions book. Sherlock now obviously wanted Greg’s help, or at least a favour, but he had to play nicely for that. 

“Don’t make me say it.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, but you keep saying I’m an idiot. So, you have to spell it out for me.”

“I’dlikeyoutohelpus.”

“Come again?” Greg blinked, failing to hide his grin. Sherlock got irritated.

“FINE! Since you and John are keen on pettiness, fine! It would… actually…. be good, if you help us.”

“Ah, sure, no problem,” Greg smiled, patting Sherlock on the shoulder. “Sorry, mate. I love to get back at your for messing up my name. I’ll be happy to join the detectives.”

“We’re almost like the Scooby-Doo gang, minus the dog and two girls,” John remark from behind his book, chuckling. He looked up when silence reigned over their part of the table. Both Greg and Sherlock looked at him oddly. “Right, you haven’t seen….”

Sherlock cut in. “Could you ask your grandfather for details? If you didn’t disclose John and I , he could tell you more. We could potentially find out who the expelled person was!”

Sherlock’s excitement came back, as well as his fidgeting. 

“Sure, but only if you let me work with you on it fully,” Greg said, dipping his quill in ink. John quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock, who seemed to have given up on the idea of not including Greg. 

“I thought that was obvious.” 

“Cool. So, I’ll meet my grandpa in August, do you want me to send you an owl?”

“We could meet up,” John suggested. He longed for a proper sleepover with his friends and this could be the perfect opportunity to lure Sherlock out and socialise for once. He saw the temptation in his features. “Sleepover at my house? My parents won’t mind, and we’re not going anywhere. Harry and I, at least.”

“Sounds good to me,” Greg said, jotting down the proper technique for the Shrinking Charm. 

“Fine,” Sherlock nodded, though there was something uneasy in his features. What could go wrong? 

To erase any doubt, John added, “I’ll show you both how some muggle technology works. And introduce you to Queen, because that wizarding music? Yeah, that’s wailing. You need to hear Freddie Mercury and David Bowie.”

That seemed to seal the deal for both Greg and Sherlock.

~

Finishing Seventh Year at Hogwarts wasn’t as grand as many made it sound. By the time they were done with N.E.W.T.s, Mycroft was exhausted. He was used to studying late into the night and into early hours of the morning, but he was glad it was over. 

He stood at the edge of his bed, trunk packed and full of his school robes and books he would leave to Sherlock, if he were ever interested in looking at his personal notes. 

From what Mycroft learnt of his brother’s extracurricular activities, he was fully endorsed by the Chamber of Secrets, along with John and their Hufflepuff friend, Greg Lestrade. Seems like he didn’t get around to sniffing out what Mycroft was up to after all. Good. 

Mycroft sighed, and sat on the bed one last time. Soon he’ll have to go down to Hogsmeade and he will likely not get back for a long time to come. That is, if Sherlock doesn’t get in trouble, which was always questionable. But there was hope. 

He fished out a folded piece of paper form his trousers. His right hand trembled slightly as he opened the fold, eyes falling shut. Even though many people believed - wished - for Voldemort to be gone forever, some of his minions and followers simply stayed to finish his bidding. 

Sherlock was wrong in his assumption that Hogwarts is safe. It wasn’t anymore, not with lunatics like relatives of Death Eaters (or Death Eaters who avoided persecution) brainwashing their children, creating factions within a wizarding minority that pure-blooded wizards had special privileges. 

He received an invitation for a secret meeting of pure-blooded Seventh Years last week. It took place yesterday, and he refused to attend. It was managed by a Slytherin Head Girl whose ego skyrocketed Mycroft and Sherlock’s combined. She had tried to recruit him over the duration of their final year, but she just simply wouldn’t get the memo. At first he brushed her off as obnoxious and an idiot, but it turned out she is far more dangerous than expected. That’s why you never underestimate your rivals and enemies. 

Indeed, he was elated to be leaving Hogwarts, not giving that girl an excuse to taint him and use Sherlock against him to get what she wants. 

Mycroft let the piece of paper fall to the ground, incinerating it with his wand. 

Under the invitation in her neat and sickening handwriting was a clear message, a threat for his resistance. 

_I will burn the heart out of you._

_♥ J_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, people, unfortunately no bonus chapter because I barely delivered this one. I'm changing seminars to bio and chem, so I gotta study. Plus, I am pre-writing another fanfiction series that will start being published in September, promo will be published on my two tumblrs in August! My bff Bee even did fanart, but you'll have to wait a bit until we do the character calls, twelve more days from now! I am pretty excite about it y'all :) drop by when you have time to spare?  
> I am [majesticnerdyvee](https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, I changed my name~  
> My primary blog is [majesticnerdynerd](https://majesticnerdynerd.tumblr.com/) I reblog stuff here. (Did I do linking right?)
> 
> Okay, but anyway. Promoting of my second fic will start in twelve days, I may tag you if you wanna see the progress and snippets of best/funniest dialogues my betas and friends selected!  
> It will be a Gravity Falls au where Sherlock, Irene, and John are spending the summer in *Reichenbach* Falls... Yeah, shenanigans, summer love, and johnlock and possessed Nicolas Cage doll (+Will Smith) will ensue. More in August (1st) and September! Drop by? :)
> 
> But completely anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Things will finally start properly unfolding soon.  
> Comments butter my croissants?
> 
> Published: 20.7.2020  
> Words: 8494
> 
> May you never get your heart burnt out~
> 
> EDIT: changed Occlumency to Legilimency, as that was an error on my side - Occlumency is protecting your thoughts from Legilimency, as @annemedwards in the comments pointed out, thank you again! :)
> 
> EDIT 2 (August 1, 2020): PROMO FOR GRAVITY FALLS AU SHERLOCK(JOHNLOCK) FANFIC JUST DROPPED! You can see it here @[jasombee](https://jasombee.tumblr.com/)   
> All my thanks to Bee who did the fanart of Irene as a first-ever Reichenbach Call! Next Call is on August 7, then 14, 21, 28, and finally, Spetember 1st we launch, guys! :3
> 
> -Vee


	8. 101 Things You May Want To Experience At A Muggle Household

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! I'm back with our monthly update :) a day early! because why not?  
> First of all, I want to say a huge THANK YOU to all of you who read, kudoed, and commented on this fic, seriously y'all, it made my heart melt and my motivation skyrocketed :') and soon we will have 1K hits!! that's amazing!! Back in February I never would've thought I'd get near a thousand :') ily ♥ y'all float my boat~
> 
> ALSO, IMPORTANT NOTE BEFORE YOU START READING:  
> I know I said I figured out how to arrange chapters that jump between the years, but I thought that we should finish up the Chamber of Secrets business first. I know that the johnlock Hogwarts years are outnumbering the Drarry and '97 ones, but I'll make it up to you all. Basically the plan is -- finish up John&Sherlock's 3rd year at school so they're on even footing with Harry, Draco, and Blake. That way, we can get into some parallels and also get on with the plot in '97 :)  
> sounds good?
> 
> God, I hope so. I really want to get to our Drarry timeline, I plan a couple chapters of just the '94/'95 plot line after this eighties' shenanigans is over :) to make up for it :) 
> 
> I reviewed this chapter, but a few slip-ups are possible. I am central European, not English, plus this isn't britpicked, I don't have a Brit of my own to watch out for the lingo :D if you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out!
> 
> So, enjoy two wizarding boys having a sleepover at a muggle household!

John kept looking at the clock in the living room. Quarter to three. Soon, Sherlock and Greg will arrive. It turned out that getting his parents' permission to have a sleepover with two wizards wasn't that big of a deal. John's father was out on a work trip in Scotland, so no limitations were in place. Harry was away for a week with her friends, so that was even better, and John's Mum was fine with two additional wizarding boys in her house as long as they didn't set fire to the kitchen, so that was a safe bet. Or so John hoped. 

“You’re running around like a lost puppy,” his Mum said from the couch, flipping a page of a magazine, secretly entertained by her son’s impatience. 

“I just want them to be here already,” John said, peeking out the window. “I wanted this sleepover for so long!”

“And you're getting it,” Mum said, a smile in her voice obvious. “How old are they?”

“Greg turned thirteen yesterday,” John said, doing a mental inventory of where he got his present for him. Under the bed. Good. “And Sherlock will be.... Oh no. I don’t actually know when his birthday is!”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“I... No? No, I would’ve remembered. I have to ask him. I only know he hates Christmas. Ridiculous git.”

“Maybe something happened on Christmas and that's why he doesn't like it, Johnny,” Mum said, turning to look at him with an understanding look. A finger tapped his chin, thoughtful.

“Hm. I haven't thought of that. What if his birthday is on Christmas Eve? Does he hate it because he gets less presents?” 

“It's not nice to assume, Johnny,” Mum said wearily, putting the magazine down. John sat down besides her.

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked at his mom, his hero, the nurse who worked many hours a week to provide for her family along with their father. He wanted to be like her one day. Help people. Wizards probably had doctors and nurses too, he supposed. He’ll have to ask Greg or Sherlock.

His mom pulled him into a hug. “Oh, don't worry about that! We all assume, anyway. It's a bad habit, that's all. The important thing is to not let it cloud our vision and judge people based on rumours and what we think we see.”

Of course, she was right. Could his mom be any nicer? Probably. 

The doorbell rang. 

“It's them!” John jumped and rushed to get the doors. Swinging them open, he grinned as he saw Greg with a duffel bag. “Greg! Glad you found it!”

“My grandpa did,” Greg said, taking off his shoes in the hall. John noticed he was also carrying his broom. Maybe he could get a shot at Quidditch this year. Granted, he needed to have a broom first, so maybe not after all. “He says hi, by the way.”

“Thanks. No sign of Sherlock?”

“I thought he'd already be here,” Greg said, raising an eyebrow. “What, Mr. Know-It-All is late?”

“Just because he's a Ravenclaw doesn't mean he's perfect,” John said, taking Greg's things and carrying them into the living room with them where his Mum had already stood up to greet him.

“Hello, Mrs. Watson,” Greg said, stretching his hand to shake hers. She gifted him a warm smile and took it gracefully. 

“Pleasure to meet you, young man,” she said. “You're Greg, as I've heard my son exclaim?”

“Yes, nice to meet you.”

“Oh, nice to meet you too! Make yourself at home,” she said, walking into the kitchen. “Fancy anything, boys? We could order pizza tonight. I'll be working the night shift, so you three will be left on your own. I trust you will not set my house on fire?”

“We can't do magic outside of Hogwarts, Mrs. Watson,” Greg explained, taking the cup with pink soda and sipping it with a crease between his eyebrows, not wanting to insult his host. John watched him with anticipation at how he would react to a muggle drink. “OH MY GOD. WHAT IS THIS?”

“Good?” John asked, laughing. Greg nodded enthusiastically. 

“GOOD? It's so tasty! You just buy this?”

“Yes, it's called soda,” John said, taking a sip himself. His mom poured Greg some more, surprised at the positive outburst. “We buy it at the mall.”

“I need this at home,” Greg sighed, gulping down his whole glass. 

“Your teeth will rot if you do it all the time,” John's Mum said with a pointed stare in their direction. 

“I can have a Healer fix that no problem, don't worry!”

“A healer?”

“Yes, they take care of injuries. What do muggles have?”

“We have doctors and nurses,” John said proudly, pointing at his mom. “My mom’s a nurse, she’s taking care of sick people at the hospital. And she’s good at it.”

“Really? That’s cool! Do you use plants to heal people in some situations too?” Greg asked, setting his glass on the counter, licking his lips. 

John’s mom blinked at the question. “Uhm… Herbal soothers? That’s… That’s, well, depends -”

The doorbell rang again and John sprinted to rip it open, only to come face-to-face with Mycroft Holmes, all posh and in a freshly ironed suit. Sherlock peered out from behind him, face bored and irritated. 

“Hi,” John forced through his frozen smile, eyes darting to Sherlock’s silver irises for a split second. 

“Hello, John,” Mycroft said, giving him a well-practised polite smile. He stepped aside to reveal Sherlock in his entirety, arms crossed and sulky. “As per your invitation, Sherlock is here for the three work days and the whole weekend of your sleepover. I had to ensure he arrived safely, you see.”

“Yes, yes, Mycroft,” Sherlock huffed, gripping his small suitcase that rested at his feet rather viciously. “You fulfilled your duty as an annoying older brother, you can go sod off to your boring Ministry job now. Bye!” Sherlock stepped over the threshold, waving his next of kin off dismissively. However, before he or John closed the doors prematurely (not John’s intention, but alas), Mrs. Watson appeared behind them.

“Oh! You must be Sherlock!” she said, her smile wrinkling little creases around her eyes. She looked at John, and then focused on Mycroft hovering outside, umbrella in hand and back straight as a rod, a courteous expression on his face. “And you are….?”

“Mycroft Holmes,” the man presented himself smoothly, shaking Mrs. Watson’s hand. “Pardon Sherlock’s fussiness, he’s a little grumpy because Mummy didn’t allow him to take Redbeard with him.”

“Redbeard?”

“My dog,” Sherlock explained, glaring daggers at Mycroft. “You can go now, you devilish creature.”

“You’re really showing your manners, Sherlock,” Mycroft said dryly, lifting an eyebrow. His expression smoothed back into his indifferent one, smiling at John’s mom one last time. “Don’t mind him. He’s only like that to his family members, aren’t you, brother dear?”

“Only you, because you’re insufferable.”

“Let’s hope John won’t find _you_ insufferable,” Mycroft said, fixing John with a quizzing look. 

“Sorry, don't have that on my schedule,” John shrugged, beaming at Sherlock's older brother. From his friend's letters he knew Mycroft had started working at the Ministry of Magic, and Sherlock in turn had grown to resent such change. Whenever John breached the subject as to what exactly irked Sherlock about it, however, the boy clammed up and talked about something else entirely. Best not to push it. 

“Speaking of schedules, can I borrow you, John? Just a moment, I promise,” Mycroft said calmly, though John sensed pointed urgency underneath the layer of indifference. 

John looked at his mom and Sherlock, who graced his brother with hate worthy of the passion of one thousand burning suns. 

“Uhm, sure,” John said, eyebrows hitching up. “Sherlock, Greg is in the kitchen, you two can finish the pink soda. I'll be right back!” 

John's Mum showed Sherlock the way, glancing over her shoulder once to shoot her son a questioning look. John shrugged and walked on the pathwalk connecting the road to their house. 

Mycroft's polished black shoes tapped until they reached the sidewalk. With a rounded wave of his hand he touched his tie and adjusted it to his liking. 

“So, what do you want to talk about?” John asked, kicking a pebble onto the deserted road. 

“Why, Sherlock, obviously,” Mycroft replied, a worried crease deepening in between his brows slightly. His grip on his umbrella tightened, eyes fixed on the stone beneath their feet. John frowned, not knowing what to expect this time. 

“Did he do something I don't know of? Set his books on fire? Do I have to share mine with him? I mean, no problem with that, but I don't like the way he writes all over the textbooks-” 

“I can assure that if that were the case, he'd have new ones already,” Mycroft said, amused. “But please, he's a Ravenclaw, not a savage to destroy books that contain knowledge. No, I want to ask you for a favour.”

“Oh?”

“You need to keep him safe, now more than ever.”

“Now it's my turn to say that's obvious. We already sorta agreed on this last year on the train, remember?”

“I do. But it is important that you are aware of the dangers that surround us in these uncertain times, John. Hogwarts isn't as safe as Dumbledore or anyone else wants you to believe. Not everyone is trustful.”

“That's pretty cryptic if you ask me,” John said, shoving one hand in the pocket of his khaki shorts. 

Mycroft gave him a bemused look. He really was worried. 

“Cryptic doesn't even scratch the surface, believe me,” he said, checking his wrist watch. “I know you two and young Mr Lestrade have begun investigating the curious case of the Chamber of Secrets. I want you to keep Sherlock focused on it for as long as possible.” 

“How do you know about it?” 

“Sherlock talks to himself when you're not with him,” Mycroft explained matter-of-factly as John felt a pang of fondness spread inside his chest. That suited Sherlock. Brilliant git talking nonstop when he put his mind to something. 

“Don't worry, we are getting into it this week,” John said, running a hand through his hair. “It all depends on what Greg got from his grandfather and we'll move from there.” 

“I am aware. But do keep him in line, will you? And do not tell him we had a conversation regarding safety at Hogwarts.” 

It was then that Mycroft looked at John, eyes hopeful and strangely vulnerable. No doubt his mind was racing as fast, if not faster, as Sherlock's. What was the root of his troubles, however, John had no clue. Asking was pointless, it's not like Mycroft revealed anything just like that. He nodded, and it seemed that a part of some invisible weight lifted off of the older Holmes' shoulders. 

“Thank you. I owe you a favour in turn,” Mycroft said, shaking John's hand in a business-like way that had him suppress a giggle. 

John thought about it, an idea lightning up above his blond mess of a hair. “When's Sherlock's birthday? He never told me.”

Mycroft arched a neat eyebrow incredulously. “Is that you asking for that favour already? And here I thought Gryffindors weren't that impulsive.” John pouted his lips and glared. The older Holmes sighed. “Really, though. I'm not taking this as the favour, although you wouldn't hesitate passing it on as such. Be careful about what you ask in the future, John.”

The man turned on his heels, swinging his umbrella over one shoulder leisurely. John watched him go, undecided whether he was insulted or just annoyed. In the end he huffed a sigh himself, rolling his eyes and turning to walk back inside his house. 

“Sixth of January,” he heard Mycroft say, and he turned his head to see a sly smile play on his lips. “He’ll be thirteen next year.”

John grinned, waving him a goodbye. “Thanks! And… Good luck at the Ministry, I guess. What do you even do?”

Mycroft sticked his pointy nose out in a proud manner, his face blank and innocent. “Oh, nothing serious. Just a minor position in the government. After all, I'm only eighteen. Time will tell where it leads us all. Farewell, John. I'll come collect Sherlock on Monday afternoon.” 

“Ta.” 

Back inside, John was delighted to see both Greg and Sherlock drink one glass of soda after another. He'll definitely have to regulate their consumption for their teeth to stand a chance at survival on this sleepover. His mom stood by, sipping clear tap water, concerned wrinkles on her forehead. 

“John! This is the most mesmerising thing I've ever had!” Sherlock exclaimed, squinting into his empty glass, all thoughts of Mycroft forgotten. Greg nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Glad you like it, but if you drink any more you'll get a stomach ache,” John said, grinning at his friends and pouring them some fresh water to cleanse their palate. “So, are you ready for spending a week immersed in the middle of a muggle neighbourhood?” 

“Are you kidding? My dad was so happy when I told him; he thinks understanding how muggles live will help me get a position as an Auror one day,” Greg said. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock quipped, but he was visibly giddy underneath his neat and posh composure. 

“So you boys are both from wizarding families?” John's mom asked, putting a hand on their shoulders. 

“Yes,” Greg and Sherlock said in unison. Greg went first. 

“I am technically a half-blood,” he said, one shoulder lifting up. “Dad is from a pure-blooded family, Mum is a half-blood herself; my grandpa was muggleborn. I was raised in a wizarding-only household, though.” 

“When it comes to the Holmes family, we're connected to other, older pure-blooded families,” Sherlock said right after. That was kind of new information for John. He had a suspicion, but it seemed too personal to ask further. “So logically, my parents are also pure-blooded, and therefore myself as well. And my brother, whom you had the misfortune of meeting.” 

“Oh, he didn't seem too bad,” John's mom said, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder meekly before pulling biscuits out of a cupboard. “I’m sure he is a loving brother. But I know how annoying older siblings can be. I have a sister, two years my senior. She’s moved to Australia, so we don’t see each other much, however. Now, what pizza would you like for dinner?”

“What’s a pizza?” Sherlock asked, perplexed. John leaned his elbows on the table, a fond smile spreading across his face. Greg seemed similarly out of his depth. Oh, these wizards. 

“It’s an Italian food,” John said, taking out a takeaway menu from a magazine stand nearby. His mom stocked it with all possible restaurant menus ever since she was at university. She kept even the menus of those restaurants that closed years ago as a way to remind herself of the good times. “And it’s really delicious. Mum, how many can we order?”

“Six,” Mum said, zipping up her wallet. She glanced at the clock over the stove and hummed. “Giovanni delivers by car, it takes about forty minutes total. You boys can order it after I leave for work, I’ll take leftovers to work with me.”

She put the biscuits in a bowl and put it on the table for the boys to take. She ruffled John’s hair as she left for the master bedroom to start getting ready, leaving them alone.

“Okay. I definitely want tuna and prosciutto. Maybe we can get diabolo too, if you guys want something spicy?”

A look at his friends told John he had to make the decisions. Greg’s brows were furrowed, mouth slightly agape as if he were speaking in tongues. Sherlock peered over John’s shoulder, snatching the menu from him and inspecting it with his scrutinizing, impaling gaze as though it were another assignment for their Potions class. He wouldn’t be totally off on that, cooking was chemistry but…. hm, he supposed that chemistry and Potions were sort of interchangeable, in a way. At least one of these lacked drawings of complicated, mind-twisting chemical reactions. 

“How spicy?” Sherlock asked, the tip of his forefinger tracing printed letters laminated under a shiny layer of plastic. 

John shrugged. “Depends. They don’t have levels of spiciness. Greg, anything you see that you’d like?”

“Hawaii pizza sounds interesting,” the Hufflepuff said after a while of reading the menu. John grimaced at the thought of witnessing such abomination being consumed at his house. 

“No. Nope. Na-ah. Never.”

“What? Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Pineapple does _not_ belong on pizza,” John said stubbornly, taking the menu away from the confused Greg. “I’d rather have corn on it than pineapple. Or spinach.”

“Your mom said we can have six pizzas, I just try to fill the void,” Greg said, rolling his eyes. “I’d like to try it. It doesn’t sound that bad.”

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He hated the idea of even pronouncing that abominable name of the dish, even more so to pay for it. He had tried it once, and that was enough. It was just _unnatural_. Who even came up with it? 

“Okay, let me get this straight first: we will get prosciutto, tuna, diabolo since none of you seem opposed,” he counted on his fingers, “that’s three. We need three more. Sherlock, anything you’d like?”

“The pepperoni pizza,” Sherlock said tapping on the second name on the menu from the top. John nodded, making a mental not if it. “Looks simple but intriguing. Oh, the bacon one too.”

“THERE’S SOMETHING WITH BACON?” Greg gasped, hurrying over to get another look at the menu. “We have to get that! I love bacon!”

“So no pineapple?” 

“Actually,” Sherlock said, standing up to stretch his legs. He and John were now almost the same height, but John still topped him by a few millimeters. Ha. “I think we should get it.”

“You both will regret making me order it,” John said, fingers tapping on the polished wooden surface. “Honestly, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. Pizza Hawai? Yeah, that’s vile.”

“But John,” Sherlock said, his silver eyes resting on John’s. “How can we know for sure if we don’t try it? It’s an experiment!”

Sod experiments, pizza shouldn’t be a part of it. But John knew he had already relented the moment Sherlock looked at him with that practised begging, soft gaze. He didn’t quite master John’s own puppy eye stare just yet, much to his relief. He was already too lenient when it came to his friend’s demands, he feared - what with his tagging along the corridors after dark and everything. And while this was far from Hogwarts and ghosts and professors they had to avoid, it was still disgruntling. 

“Sherlock’s right,” Greg joined in, nodding fervently in agreement. “You cannot possibly ruin our experience with muggle food when we haven’t even tried it!”

His friends stared at him, pleading and curious; determined even. And who was John to deny them their wishes? Disappointment on their part was inevitable, John was sure of that. He shook his head, remembering what his Mum told him earlier: don’t assume. With trouble, he swallowed his prejudice against exotic fruit on pizza and stayed quiet, nodding as Greg and Sherlock cheered. 

“Fine. But if it turns out you don’t like it, I’ll still make you finish the whole of it.”

“Deal!” Greg grinned, shaking his hand for good measure.

John stood up, tucking the chair behind the table in the process. He stole a biscuit and popped it in his mouth, motioning to the boys to follow him upstairs. “Let’s go, then. I’ll show you where you sleep.”

~

At quarter past seven, the doorbell rang. John grabbed the forty pounds his Mum left him to pay for the pizzas and ventured to the hallway, leaving Greg and Sherlock plastered to the TV. The gits sat glued to the couch, eyes wide with wonder at the moving images and sounds that accompanied them. Currently they were watching Doctor Who, the fifth regeneration played by Peter Davison. Suffice to say, both of them devoured what was happening on screen, much to John’s delight. They probably haven’t even noticed him get up to answer the door.

“Here you go,” the delivery boy said, handing John his change once he handed over the pizzas. The smell was delicious. “Enjoy!”

“Thanks!” John called after him, closing the door with a bump of his hip. They ordered medium pizzas; if they overeat, there will still be some slices left for breakfast. “Guys! We got pizza!”

John tapped over to the kitchen, flicking on the lights and he set the cardboard boxes on the table. Greg and Sherlock came in, seating themselves on the opposite sides of the table. “I suppose we can’t eat in the living room?” Sherlock asked, glancing over his shoulder at the TV. 

“Sorry, Mum doesn’t like it when we eat there,” John said, spreading out the boxes and opening them. Steam lifted off to the ceiling, it was very fresh. “Do you want some coke to go with it?”

“Coke?” the wizard boys looked at him, dumbfounded. 

John rolled his eyes, more at himself than at them - he should stop expecting them to know such trivia. He didn’t know much wizarding stuff either. Like with that Lord whoever-knows-who-it-was. At least he wasn't a threat anymore since last October. 

“It’s a sweet, fuzzy drink. Technically a soda, but I’m not a soda scientist to know exactly,” he said by way of explanation, opening the fridge and taking out a two-liter bottle of Coca-Cola. He poured each of them a glass before taking a seat as well. The pizzas looked delicious (except Hawaii), the cheese melted, the crusts crispy, the toppings ( _except_ Hawaii) baked into the scheme of mouthwatering tastiness that awaited their hungry faces.

John raised his glass to clink with his friends, and let the feast begin. “Dig in, guys!”

Greg reached for a slice of prosciutto pizza, hissing as the pads of his fingers got burned. Sherlock figured out a way around it - drag the slice by the crust on the other, empty side of the cardboard box and blow on it. John grinned at them, boldly taking a slice of tuna pizza and huffing as he took a bite, used to the heat and swallowing skillfully so that he didn’t burn all of his mouth. 

Soon, hums of approval and content sighs filled the kitchen. 

“This is delicious!” Greg said with his mouth full. He took a sip of coca-cola, grabbing a slice of the pineapple pizza. John’s breath caught in his chest, and Sherlock lifted his head as well from the tuna slice he stole from under John’s nose. 

“Greg, you can always back out from eating that disgusting thing, you know?” John said as Sherlock gulped down his piece, shuffling to the opposite side of the table to get a slice of his own. “I only want what’s good for you, mate.”

“Promises, promises,” Greg said, sighing as though he were in love with his food. Not unlikely, Giovanni’s pizza was heavenly. John averted his gaze as Greg bit into the devil’s trap. The retribution in the form of spitting and cursing didn’t occur, however. 

John looked up, horrified to see that both Sherlock and Greg chewed their slices, and neither appeared to be appalled or disgusted. One small victory was Sherlock not seeming as taken by it as he had been with the tuna pizza. Greg, on the other hand, devoured the slice he had been holding and then grabbed another one. 

“So…. What do you think? Sherlock?” John asked, hoping to get some understanding out of this. He watched Greg annihilate half of the pizza while Sherlock spoke. 

“It’s… Strange. Not as dreadful as you had made it sound, but not marvelous either. It’s acceptable,” he said, putting down the crust and dusting off his hands. He poured himself some more Coca-Cola. “Although I think that Gawain here thinks otherwise.”

Greg threw the crust he put down at him when he messed up his name, Sherlock ducking with ease as he grabbed a slice of pepperoni pizza. 

“This stuff? It’s amazing! How can you not like it?” Greg mouthed, spitting out wet crumbs. John backed away a bit towards Sherlock. 

“I’m a man of culture, that’s how,” John said, rolling his eyes as he smiled. Greg was ridiculous, and the stunt he was pulling with the pizza was making him gag, but this was his first day spent immersed in a completely muggle household - could he blame him?

When he turned around, he was momentarily stunned to see Sherlock had arranged five slices of pizza, each of different kind, and he loomed above it, silver eyes skimming over them as if they were an interesting species of salamander’s tongue. 

Sherlock steepled his hands together and under his chin, dark curls falling over his forehead. He bent over in his waist to get a closer look, sniffing the pieces. John chuckled, leaning against the back of his chair. Watching Sherlock was always fascinating - the way he went about solving the smallest of problems to his perfect vision, the way he examined everything that took his interest… 

John pried his eyes away when Sherlock looked up, frowning at him and Greg, daring them to question his experimentation. John looked to Greg, who finished the Hawaii pizza, slumping on his chair with a full stomach. Greg raised his eyebrows, something sly about it, though John couldn’t figure out why. He jerked his head at the Hufflepuff in question, but his secret smirk only deepened before he shrugged and groaned. 

“I think I overstuffed myself,” Greg said. “Like a turkey.”

“You have the impulse control of a pigeon, are you surprised?” Sherlock muttered, taking the diabolo slice and taking a bite. He repeated this with the other four pieces, chewing thoroughly. 

“What is he doing again?” Greg leaned in as John lifted a shoulder. 

“Dunno, conducting an experiment.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock quipped, curly head snapping up as he regarded them with a satisfied look. He pointed at the diabolo slice. “This one. I find it to be exceptionally good. I like it the most.”

“So that was your experiment? See which one you prefer?” Greg said incredulously, as if he didn't just gulp down almost the whole of Pizza Abomination. 

“Problem?” 

“No, you just didn't have to go all scholarly on it. Just eat a proper slice of each and then you'll see.” 

“This gives me a better opportunity to properly examine each combination without filling my stomach prematurely,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms defensively. He stuck his chin out as if to challenge Greg to defy his logic. 

“Okay, whatever. Glad you found one you like, mate,” Greg shrugged, grinning at John who found the Ravenclaw's antics amusing as usual. 

Once the boys devoured most of their dinner, they resumed watching trash telly the moment Doctor Who ended. Greg and Sherlock fought over the rights to hold the remote and switch channels until John stepped in and declared himself the Supreme Remote Ruler and flipped the channels depending on the ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’ his friend's let out when something caught their attention. Which was, frankly, everything. And this was just the beginning of their five day sleepover. 

~

John woke up to sounds of soft snoring. He lifted his arm that shielded his eyes from the morning sun penetrating his dark blue curtains and his room. He let out a sharp exhale through his nose, rubbing his eyes and yawning. 

Turning his head, he smiled as he saw Sherlock sleeping soundly on a mattress next to him. Yesterday, he and Greg had a bit of a quarrel over who sleeps where. John refused to sleep in his bed since they were his guests, so the two had options. John had inflated two mattresses prior to their arrival, and after five minutes of intense negotiating, they came to an agreement that Greg and Sherlock will switch sleeping on the bed. 

By a way of courtesy, Sherlock let Greg take the first turn, saying that sleeping on the floor (mattress) is more authentic. He had then looked to John for approval that his statement was correct, to which he, naturally, nodded. It didn't matter, not really, but who was John to take the excitement away from them? 

They had fallen asleep with stomachs full of pizza and Coca-Cola, too tired for a late-night chat, but content. 

John rolled to his side, taking in the sight of sleeping Sherlock. He'd never had a chance to see his friend so vulnerable and calm before. Not even that one time in their first year when he ended up in the Hospital Wing due to his ill-advised arrogance and curiosity when he opened a book from the Forbidden Section that tried to eat his hand. 

But now, when the morning sun illuminated the room, Sherlock's back turned to the window, hands tucked under his left cheek, the sun created a glimmer of halo at the end of his mop of curls, making him look adorable. He noticed that Sherlock was lying on the edge of his mattress instinctively curled up closer to John, the thin blanket he gave him loosely wrapped around his legs and body. 

Greg was dozing on the bed, limbs akimbo and his snoring disturbing his airways. He was still out of it. 

John lifted his head to look around; his room was still the same, save for the crowded feeling it had now. Not that he expected a change. A quick glance at his bedside table digital clock told him that it was 8:19. His Mum wasn't going to be home for another four hours. 

As much as John wanted to stay lying around, his biological needs overrode his desire to stay horizontal and enjoy another summer holidays morning. He quietly extricated himself from the mattress, careful not to disturb either of his friends. He closed the door on his room with a muffled ‘click’ and padded over to the bathroom. 

Once done with his morning routine, face washed, teeth brushed, and bladder emptied, he tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen. 

He was glad to see that his Mum's nagging about leaving the kitchen clean before going to sleep paid off. He had stacked the boxes on the counter, wiped the table and washed the utensils they had used the night before. No need to wash anything now. 

Without making much noise, he took out a bowl and poured himself some cereals with milk. He had nothing against stale pizza, but his taste buds needed cleansing. 

Just as he closed the fridge door with a kick of his foot, sipping cold milk from the bowl he held with one hand, a rough voice said, “Morning.” 

John almost choked on the chocolate cereals, putting the bowl down with bang and clatter as he coughed his way through. 

It was Sherlock. The sleepy boy rubbed at his eye, the other squinting at John as if he were a ghost. His pyjamas were too big for his skinny figure. 

“Jesus,” John breathed, clutching at his heart. “You almost scared me to death! But morning to you too. Sleep well?”

“Mhm,” was all Sherlock said - or grumbled - as he slumped down on a chair. “I don’t think I’ve eaten this much all summer. My stomach is still full.”

“Have a glass of water,” John said nodding to the cupboard above the sink. Sherlock looked longingly between it and John, lazy to move. “Git, help yourself. I’m eating.”

Mumbling, Sherlock helped himself to some fresh water. Soon after, his attention was taken by a toaster in the far corner of the kitchen counter. He shuffled closer, prodding it with his forefinger as though it could jump and bite him any second. Thankfully, it was unplugged. John watched Sherlock stick his long fingers inside the slits for toasts, rotating the device in his palms. He chuckled to himself, drawing Sherlock’s gaze.

“What is this? It’s so….”

“Strange?”

“Interesting,” Sherlock corrected, bringing the toaster with him behind the table. John drank the last of his chocolate infused milk and put the bowl aside, leaning on his elbows. “What is it for?”

“It’s called a toaster,” John explained, setting it upright. He bit his lip as Sherlock drew the little pad that put the toast inside down. “You put sliced bread in it and it toasts it. Thus the name. It’s crunchy afterwards.”

“Can I have some?”

“I thought you said you’re full?”

“I am, but who am I to deny myself more input and data about this muggle world of yours?” Sherlock argued, looking pleadingly at John. 

“Okay, I’ll make some. Greg may want to try it as well. Want me to show you how it works?”

“Yes!”

Minutes later, Greg came downstairs to witness his friends hunched over the kitchen countertop, John patiently explaining the functions of the toaster. 

“So, you first plug it in here,” he said, gesturing to an electricity plug. “And that means it’s on. You turn this thingy with the circle to the right and then you pop your two breads in. Then you pull this pad down and wait until it pops up on its own. That’s when you know it’s done. NO WE DO NOT STICK FORKS OR METALS INSIDE, SHERLOCK. NEITHER ANY PART OF YOUR BODY. NO. IT HURTS. IT’S HOT. SHERLOCK - I told you so. Git, show me your finger. Under cold water, here.”

Only when he sat the hurting boy down did John notice Greg hovering on the threshold of the kitchen. “Morning, Greg. Hungry?”

“Is there any pizza left?” 

“There,” John pointed a thumb over his shoulder in its approximate direction. He glared at Sherlock, who sucked on his burnt forefinger. “Don’t let him touch the toaster, okay? I’ll get some soothing gel and plasters.”

“What’s a toaster?” Greg asked, frowning as he took a box of pizza and sat next to Sherlock. The boy lightened up and started explaining all that John had told him. John half-listened to Sherlock’s rapid rant listing all the positives and perceived negatives of the device (so far, the only negative thing was that it burnt you) as he rummaged through their bathroom cabinet for plasters and cold gel his mom sometimes rubbed in her knees after long days at work. 

When he returned, the toasts popped up, startling the wizard boys, but both of them went ‘Ooooh’ as John haphazardly took the slices out on a plate, hissing as the still hot pieces burnt his pads as well. He set the plate in front of the boys, taking out butter and jam for them to try it on. 

“Help yourselves,” he said, but he snatched Sherlock’s hand with the burnt finger to examine it closely. “But first let me patch you up. I told you not to stick anything but bread in the toaster, you sod.”

“I assume those are not healing plasters,” Sherlock said, tilting his head to look at John unscrewing the gel tube. John hummed, not really having an idea of what healing plasters were exactly (possibly something more advanced than muggle medicine, speeding up the healing process). He carefully rotated Sherlock’s hand, applying a drop of the gel on top of the burnt area. Sherlock hissed, but didn’t stir as John delicately spread it across the burn, not touching his damaged skin. He knew his Mum would probably bandage it, but he hadn’t that much experience with patching people up, so plasters it is. And also, the impact wasn’t all that big. It was just a second or so, it won’t be too bad.

He tore a strip free, wrapping it round Sherlock’s bony finger with precision. When he and Harry were younger, he used to put these on whenever one of them scratched their knees or elbows while playing and Mum was at work. It was simple, really. 

“It will probably form a blister and we’ll need to change the plaster, but Mum should be home by then,” John said, screwing the lid back on the tube. Greg was idly watching them, mouth full of toast. John thought for a while, absentmindedly watching Sherlock examine the dressing on his finger. “I think you should take ibuprofen too. It’s a pill that helps relieve pain. Mum gives it to us when our heads hurt, or something else. I think she said it also reduces inflammation.”

“How do you know so much?” Greg asked, resting his chin on his palm. 

John shrugged, tucking the rest of the plasters back into their packaging. “Dunno. I’ve scratched my knees so many times over the years I just know. Mum’s a nurse, it just sort of rubs off on you.”

He looked up to see Greg nod and Sherlock stare with his piercing silver eyes. No doubt he was deducing things John had no clue of about him. Surprisingly, he voiced none of them if that were the case. He pulled the toast closer and tore a small piece before popping it in his mouth. 

“I’ll get you that ibuprofen, then,” John said, getting up. “Oh, and we can watch some more telly after. Mum will come home after twelve, and she’ll probably bring lunch. Then we can go out or something, yeah?”

Greg grinned. “Do you know a quiet place? I brought my broom with me, I can teach you some Quidditch maneuvers!”

John grinned back, tilting his head to the left as he considered it and mentally tried to remember secluded places nearby. There was one. “Deal!”

~

John hooked one leg over Greg’s broom, kicking himself off of the ground lightly. He hovered a meter above the green grass in the glade he took them to. Sherlock was standing with his back pressed against a giant oak tree, a skeptical eyebrow hitched up as he observed what was about to happen. 

It’s been ages since he sat on a wizarding broom. He flew well back in the First Year, but there simply never was space for him to purchase a broom on his own. Even less so, there was no proper space for him where to practise regularly. Greg endlessly nagged him to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team so that he could compete against him, but alas. Maybe he’ll give it a shot next year, if he persuades his parents to buy him a broom for his fourteenth birthday. 

“I’ll throw this… ball, or whatever, at you,” Greg said, weighing a soccer ball in his hand. John made a careful half circle around the glade, aware of the silver eyes following him. Sherlock was clear that he has no desire to fly. From what John remembered, he flew alright during classes at Hogwarts, but apparently it wasn’t his forte. “Catch it or kick it, alright?”

“Will do,” John nodded, experimenting with his weight on the broom. It wasn’t rocket science, really. Balancing came naturally to him. As he came to a halt, he pushed himself up to a straighter sitting position, one hand idly resting on his thigh in case he tipped over and needed to catch onto the wood. “Bring it on, Greg!”

So Greg did. He threw the football forth as hard as he could, John surging forward and meeting it halfway to kick it back, a neat curve of the ball smoothly returning back to the figures of his two friends. Greg whistled in admiration, a playful smirk on his lips as he picked the ball up and hauled it right back at John. 

This went on for a while, during which Sherlock sneaked off to the side to inspect God-knows-what in the bushes. John registered it only half-heartedly, his primary focus on the football Greg kept so vigorously bouncing at him. 

With the sun so high up in the sky, the temperature had gotten unbearable with every turn John took, no matter that his face was caressed by the soft breeze he ruffled by swinging to and fro in the glade. Once he’d had enough, he stopped and hopped down, face flushed with droplets of sweat on his hairline. 

“Mate, I beg you,” Greg said, taking the broom from him, “please, please, _PLEASE_ , join the Gryffindor team this year! You’re so good! How can you be so obtuse? C’mon, you won’t regret it.”

“I told you, I don’t own a broom,” John said, folding his arms across his chest. He peeked over his friend to see where Sherlock had wandered off to. 

“So? I’ll give you one of my old ones,” Greg shrugged, falling one step behind him as John spotted that mop of curls crouched nearby. “Seriously, you would make a good Keeper or Chaser. Maybe even a Beater.”

“Flattering, but I can’t take something that’s yours,” John shook his head, wiping the sweat off his forehead in his t-shirt. “Thank you, though. I may ask my parents to get me one for my birthday next year.”

“Next year? I have to wait one more year until I can compete against you?”

“What’s up with you and this competition?”

“Mate, Quidditch is amazing to play with friends! You’ll see once you get on the pitch.”

“If you say so,” John laughed, closing in on Sherlock from around the bush he was crouched behind. “What are you doing?”

“John, look!” Sherlock beamed, shoving _something_ in his face. It wasn’t until his pupils focused on it that he took a step backwards, Greg yelping in disgust.

“What the fuck, Sherlock?” Greg eeked. He put the broom out like a sword to protect himself from a green lizard Sherlock was holding. “Put it down!”

“It’s a short-headed lizard!” Sherlock said, ignoring Greg’s protests as he stood up, the little creature in his hand looking indifferent to the whole ordeal. John blinked as Sherlock grinned at the lizard, then at him, a childlike smile painting his features. “They’re quite fast, but I caught him. It’s a male, see the green colour on his body? Males have only a brown stripe of colour on their backs while the females are all brown by default. Fascinating creatures.”

“It would be quite fascinating if you put it back where it belongs,” Greg scoffed, fidgeting a few paces behind John. “You’re scaring it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, he doesn’t feel scared,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking to John for some kind of support. 

“Uhm…. So you like lizards?” John said lamely, hearing the facepalm Greg did and seeing another roll of Sherlock’s eyes. “Sorry, _obviously_ you do. Well…. He’s pretty, aren’t you, little buddy?”

“Don’t coddle him, John,” Sherlock huffed, but there was a pleased look on his face that he picked up on. “But yes, he is rather pretty. Did you know that these lizards can purposefully break off their tails if they’re being hunted?”

Greg gagged. Sherlock smirked ruthlessly. John tipped his head in silent admiration.

“It grows back after a while,” Sherlock continued, holding the lizard up to his gaze. It stuck its tongue out, sniffing the air while doing so. 

“Just put it back, please,” Greg repeated miserably. 

“What, are you scared?” John teased, barking out a laugh as Greg fell silent. “You are? But it’s tiny! It doesn’t hurt anybody.”

“Hey, it’s not like I can help it!” Greg said defensively, glaring at them. “Lizards and snakes are just…. weird. And look slimy. And you never know if they’re poisonous!”

“I can assure you that they are not covered in slime, otherwise he would’ve slipped from my grasp long ago,” Sherlock said, outstretching his hand, the lizard looking at Greg with cold, black eyes. Greg backed away, stuttering. 

“Sherlock I swear to Merlin’s fucking pants, don’t put it in my face!”

“Oh, please. The best way to overcome your fears is to face them. Just take a closer look, you’ll see he’s friendly.”

“Nope. Fuck off.”

Sherlock leapt closer, Greg shrieking, a high-pitched scream penetrating the surrounding forest, startling birds from their branches. Greg fell over, tripping on a twig and Sherlock knelt next to him, the forefinger that wasn’t bandaged petting the lizard’s tiny snout. Greg covered his face, squirming to get away from the reptilian’s proximity, but Sherlock loomed over him while John was bent over from laughing so much. 

“Okay, let him be, Sherlock,” John said, sobering up a little when he saw the more than obvious discomfort on his friend’s face. 

“YES, PLEASE FUCK OFF,” Greg bellowed, fingers spread so that he could see through them. 

“Just pet his snout once, he won’t bite,” Sherlock nudged the lizard closer, the animal oblivious to the stress it was causing the wizard boy. 

“NO!”

“Come on, Lestrade,” Sherlock said with a wicked grin. “You fly above the ground at high speed under the threat of being knocked out and falling to your demise at Quidditch, how is petting a harmless animal any more dangerous?”

“I play Quidditch willingly!”

“And I pet lizards willingly.”

“Yeah, because you have questionable hobbies!”

“They’re interesting!”

“Yes but you’ve got to admit they’re also pretty bizarre at times.”

Sherlock scowled at Greg, shuffling closer, pinning him to the ground with one knee on Greg’s stomach. John rolled his eyes at their childishness, walking up to them to talk sense to those two. Sherlock took a hold of Greg’s arm by the wrist to stop him from wriggling further away, lowering the lizard up in his face as Greg squealed for help. 

“Alright, girls, that’s enough,” John sighed, poker face painting his expression as he watched the ordeal unfold. They both stopped, heads snapping to look at him. “Can you both stop? You’re like two five year olds beating each other up ‘cause one of you destroyed the other’s sand castle.”

“My point stands,” Sherlock waved his free hand dismissively. “Lizards are fascinating and definitely not slimy. Not this kind, anyway.”

“I don’t care about your lizards!” Greg growled exasperatedly, trying to shake Sherlock’s bony knee off. He laughed when Sherlock pressed it firmer to his ribs. “Stop! I’m ticklish!”

“Sherlock, stop using modern torture tactics on Greg, please,” John said, facepalming. “Not everyone feels comfortable when you force them to face their fears, you know? How would you feel if Greg did that to you?”

“I’m not scared of lizards.”

“I figured. But think about it. It’s not nice to do this. Get off and let the lizard run about.”

Sherlock pouted, looking down at the lizard, quietly awaiting the next course of action. “You do have a point,” he admitted grudgingly. “Fine. He may be hungry, it’s about time he found himself some insects.” And with that, a tug on the corner of his mouth later, he placed the green lizard down on Greg’s torso and abruptly stood up, hands in pockets as he aimed it to where John was standing. 

Greg squealed, froze, then sat up and sprinted to the other half of the gale, shaking his shoulders as if to throw off the invisible reptiles he imagined to be crawling all over him. “FUCK YOU, HOLMES!” he cursed along the way, John and Sherlock bending over from the laughter. “I SWEAR I’LL GET BACK TO YOU FOR THIS!”

“I want to see you try,” Sherlock snickered, exceptionally proud of himself. Then he beamed up at John, tugging at his t-shirt. “John! We have to get samples of the dirt here!”

John blinked, then nodded and called Greg to assure him that no, there is no lizard climbing his clothes, thank you very much. Once the Hufflepuff calmed down and slapped Sherlock on the arm for being a dickhead, he tagged along with them, broom over his shoulder as they ventured to get Sherlock his samples. 

~

Later that day after John’s Mum left for another nightshift at the hospital, John finally got the chance to show his friends some _real_ music. So essentially, he put on the cassettes and led them to the world of Queen and David Bowie. 

At first he was nervous they’d deem it weird as he did with wizard music, but it had been a success. The album with Ziggy Stardust was well-liked by both Greg and Sherlock, although Greg shot him odd glances at certain guitar solos. Sherlock, however, lay on his back, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes closed and listening for the duration of each song. 

“So, what do you think so far?” John asked once _Starman_ finished playing. It was that kind of a dream song you sang during summer under starry skies, heart longing for the far-away stars in the galaxy while you hugged your friends around the shoulders and sang your voice out, just enjoying the moment. 

“I liked this one,” Greg said solemnly, lifting a shoulder from where he sat on the floor in John’s room. He toyed with his collection of tiny, plastic soldiers he used to play with as a boy. “Some sequences sound pretty weird, but overall? I kinda like it. Bowie is cool.”

“I’m glad, my Mum loves him. And Queen. What do you think, Sherlock?”

“Muggle music is ironically quite enchanting,” he said, silver eyes connecting with John’s blue ones. For a moment, John saw a sparkle similar to the stars he imagined whenever he listened to _Starman_ , utterly lost in them and the glimmering beauty. He felt a soft smile curve his lips, Sherlock reciprocating faintly, barely a twitch of his cheeks but there all the same. “It’s rather nice. Do you have more of these… ‘albums’?”

“Yep, but now I’ll play you Queen,” John said, scrambling to his feet to change the music as he played Bohemian Rhapsody. If they liked Bowie, then the different genres mashed up in this song won’t be a problem. “Trust me, you’ll know the lyrics after listening to this for two times. It’s really catchy and it’s _legendary_.”

The boys listened, the tempo of the song increasing and falling, speeding up and slowing down, the instruments aiding the perfect vocals as the band delivered a perfect rendition of the lyrics. Once over, John looked up from the book on Charms that was in his lap, expectant. 

“That was….” Greg began, eyebrows hitching up, “.... something. Pretty good, too.”

“It wasn’t just good, Jeff,” Sherlock said, sitting up. He ignored Greg’s gaping, fixing his silver gaze on John. “Where do you get these… what is it called?”

“Cassettes?” John supplied as Sherlock nodded. “In retail. They cost around eight to ten pounds each I think. Mum buys them, she has a walkman she takes with her to work to pass time on the tube.”

“How does it work?” Sherlock walked over to John’s radio, prodding a button that opened a cartridge with the cassette. He put it against the light, observing it with keen interest. Greg walked over to him and joined him. They looked comical, and John noticed that Greg was slightly taller than Sherlock. Oh, what an ammunition he had for when Sherlock angered him next…. 

“I’m not sure what the science behind it is,” John said, shrugging, “but the music is recorded on the tape inside and when you put it inside a walkman or in that radio, it tapes it from one end to the other. No WAIT - don’t re-tape it yourself! It can mess up really easily.”

“I’d like to disassemble it,” Sherlock argued as John snatched the cassette from him. “How else will I figure out how it works?”

“I’ll see if we have an old cassette that’s no longer used for you to have,” John promised, putting the cassette in a drawer where the rest lay as well. And suddenly, he got an idea of what present he can get Sherlock for his birthday. Sherlock seemed elated at the news that John will supply him with muggle treasures, so all the better. Oh yes, this was good. “Oh! Greg, we’ve a present for you!”

“What? What for?” Greg looked perplexed. It was true that John had forgotten about it yesterday, but no harm was done. 

“Your birthday, obviously,” John mimicked Sherlock who seemed like he was about to say it. John kneeled besides his bed and drew out a box in which he hid the things he and Sherlock bought. He shoved the box forth for Greg to take. “So, happy late birthday!” 

Greg grabbed the wrapped present, eyeing his friends suspiciously. Sherlock looked bored and plopped down on John’s bed, lying down with his arms crossed under his head. “If I find a lizard in there….”

“There’s no lizard,” John said, bumping him with his shoulder. “Open it! Sherlock and I put money from our allowances together to buy it.”

“More like you forced me to do so,” Sherlock grumbled from the bed. 

“Yeah, because that's what friends do.”

“Bully each other into buying presents for a third party?”

“Yeah!”

“Tedious.”

“Git. Greg, open it!”

Greg did. He tore the Christmas wrapping paper down (John wanted the gift to look at least half-decent and snowflakes printed on shiny paper were his only hope) and pried it open. He gasped as he saw a pair of brand-new Quidditch gloves looking at him, plus a pair of goggles. “Wow! These are high quality! Where did you buy it?”

“Sherlock bought it at Diagon Alley and sent me an owl,” John said, happy that Greg liked it. “At the Quidditch shop or whatever it is called. I put an Impervius Charm on the goggles so they should repel water when you have practise during rainy days. Thought that could come in handy.”

“It’s absolutely perfect!” Greg beamed, hugging John briefly as he put the gloves and goggles on. He looked ridiculous without the rest of his Quidditch gear, but he was beyond happy, so it didn’t matter. He jumped down on John’s bed, startling Sherlock out of his comfortable position. “Thank you both. I can’t believe Sherlock Holmes got me a present!”

“Begrudgingly,” Sherlock mumbled, freezing when Greg hugged him as well. “What is this?”

“A hug, you berk. Thank you. I needed new gloves. I’ll use them for the official matches.”

“Uhm… You’re welcome.”

Greg laughed at Sherlock’s uncomfortableness, shoving him into the mattress. “Next thing I know, you’ll be using my real name.”

“You can keep dreaming, Graham,” John teased, eliciting a smirk from Sherlock and a squint from Greg. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. Want to listen to more Queen?”

~

It wasn’t until two days later when Sherlock suddenly bolted downstairs in the morning to the kitchen that John felt a pang of realisation of what they originally planned to do during the sleepover. 

“Lestrade, do you have relevant information on the Chamber of Secrets?” Sherlock breathed, hair muffled and sticking up at odd angles, a ghost of pillow creases pressed into his cheek. 

Greg stopped to look up at him, spoon with cereal halting mid-way to his hungry mouth. “Huh? Oh. OH! Yeah, I do! Not much, but yeah.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?! Tell me what you’ve got!” 

“Can I have breakfast first? You can interrogate me later. Besides, how come you remembered only now? I thought you being a Ravenclaw and so _thorough_ meant that you’d demand to know it the moment we got here.”

Sherlock sat down next to John, feet tapping against the tiles in eagerness. “I was…. distracted.”

“Yeah, me too,” Greg kicked him under the table, munching on the cereals. “Damn, we should do this every summer. This was the best one in my life so far.”

“Agreed,” John said, satisfied that the two gits enjoyed it. They had been out to practise some Quidditch throws yesterday, John getting better at it. He had to admit, he was rather good. If only he had a broom this year…. “Maybe we can switch places every year. I hosted this summer, maybe the next can be hosted by Greg?” I’ve never been to a proper wizarding household, you know. You owe me a similar experience.”

“Sure, we can definitely do that! We don’t usually travel during the holidays, only on Christmas, so there won’t be a problem. And the year after, we can go to Sherlock’s!”

They looked expectantly at him, who let his eyebrows rise and fall indifferently. “Yes. That gives me enough notice to inform my parents. At least I won’t have to attend some tedious family reunion. Maybe we’ll even have the house to ourselves.”

“Sounds good,” Greg nodded, pushing the now empty ceramic bowl towards the middle of the table. 

“Your parents won’t mind having three teenage boys roaming around their house just like that?” John asked skeptically. 

“Your mom doesn’t mind it either, apparently,” Sherlock deadpanned, jerking his head upstairs, urging them to get up and to _work_. 

“Mum knows I’m responsible,” John countered, sticking out his chin and straightening his back. “Which I am, because I took care of your burn, remember? When I told you you _cannot_ stick fingers into the toaster?”

“Such a Ravenclaw,” Greg muttered under his breath, chuckling. 

Sherlock pouted. “Well, I’ve got to know what exactly will happen, don’t I? How else am I supposed to conduct an experiment?”

“Well, the bread got toasted enough for you to make your fingers meet the same fate, don’t you think it was _obvious_?” John used Sherlock’s own medicine against him, relishing the ugly glare Sherlock shot him. 

“You’re both insufferable,” he proclaimed, turning on his heels dramatically as he rounded the corner. His head reappeared, however, curls bouncing up and down. “Are you coming so that we can solve the mystery of the Chamber of Secrets or should I ponder why I made the mistake of agreeing to let you help us, Gravy?”

“You tell me, turkey,” Greg bit back, squinting at Sherlock, the Ravenclaw reciprocating the facial expression in a deadly manner before John stepped in, already aggravated. God help him this year at Hogwarts. 

“Girls, stop bickering. Sherlock, first you have breakfast too, and THEN we can go solve old crimes.”

“But -”

“ _Eat_ , you negligent poultry!”

So Sherlock did, scoffing at the toast John presented him with, biting chunks off like a rabid bunny. In the meantime, Greg poured himself some soda, the liquid becoming somewhat sacred to the two wizarding boys over the course of the sleepover. Good thing Hogwarts had juice at most; their teeth will appreciate it.

Once upstairs and behind confidentially closed doors, the boys sat down on John’s purple carpet in a semicircle, legs crossed and elbows propped on pointy knees. Sherlock bore his gaze into Greg, impatiently waiting for him to get started. 

“So? What did your grandfather tell you?”

“He said that back then, it was a lot of fuss,” Greg began, scratching at his temple. John leaned back to rest his back against his bookshelf. Suddenly, he got an idea. 

“Wait! Don’t say anything yet!” he hurried to say, shuffling to his desk to grab a notepad and a pen. He resettled himself between his friends, nodding to Greg to continue. Sherlock gave him the look of approval, a small smile tilting his lips. 

“Good idea, John,” he said, eyes twinkling. John’s chest swelled proudly under the praise, and he caught a glimpse of Greg looking from one to the other, eyebrows slightly raised and a knowing (knowing what?) smirk on his face. Before long, Sherlock turned back to Greg. “Now. Data.”

“Okay. So. It was a fuss, mainly among the teachers. All of a sudden, several students were injured and it was really creepy. And then one student was killed. A girl, uhm, I think her name was Myrtle.”

“Myrtle what?” both John and Sherlock asked in unison, making John frown at the joint force. 

“I… Gimme a second, I’ve got to remember…. Myrtle… Warr..en? Yeah, Warren, or something,” he said, shrugging. Sherlock huffed, but stayed silent as not to interrupt Greg’s storytelling. “Okay. So she was killed, OH - and she was a muggleborn, I think.”

“Hm,” was all that came out of Sherlock as he steepled his fingers under his chin thoughtfully. John jotted down every important keyword.

“Anyway, they blamed a Third Year student for opening the Chamber, apparently. Another student found out he had raised an Acromantula in the castle, and he was expelled. People back then believed that he opened the Chamber and let the spider kill Myrtle.”

“That’s rough,” John commented, grimacing. Greg and Sherlock gave him a bored look that said ‘ _Seriously?_ ’ as he frowned. “What? It is. Since she was a muggleborn, imagine how it must’ve sounded to her muggle parents. That’s horrible.”

“Yes, it is, but we can’t change that now, can we?” Sherlock said. “What was the name of the student who was expelled?”

“Rubeus Hagrid,” Greg said. John didn’t really recognise that name. Could be anyone-

“The school’s gamekeeper?” Sherlock frowned, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

“Who?” John asked, confused. 

“He takes care of the school grounds,” Greg explained, lifting his shoulders momentarily. “I was just as shocked. Never talked much with him but he seems nice enough.”

“Why would he be working at Hogwarts if he apparently killed another student?”

“Isn’t it obvious? He didn’t do it,” Sherlock said, tone of voice indicating they were being idiots. “I’ve never paid much attention to him, he seemed very uninteresting, oafish almost. Hm. It appears we will have to talk to him.”

“Hey, I don’t think we should waltz in and go ‘Hey! We heard you opened the Chamber of Secrets! Wanna talk about how you apparently got a student killed?’” Greg said exasperatedly. He shook his head when all Sherlock did was snort. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. That man is no threat. He tends to help professor Sprout around the greenhouses, that’s where I noticed him from time to time. He’s not that hard to miss, really.”

“So what’s the plan, then? I agree with Greg, we should be careful. I don’t want McGonagall to come after us if we cross some line we’re unaware of,” John said. He shuddered at the thought of his Head of House rushing to get them from a class, robes fluttering behind her and that steely, stern gaze boring into his like she wants to get a good look at his already damned soul. 

Sherlock got to his feet, marching up and down the room. John tapped the pen against his chapped lips, rereading the notes:

Chamber of Secrets

-fuss, panic among teachers

-students injured

-1 killed → Myrtle Warren, muggleborn

-3rd year student raised spiders (sb else found it)

→ Rubeus Hagrid, gamekeeper = expelled but stayed in Hogwarts?? 

It wasn’t much, but at least they got names. 

“We have to investigate further. We need more data. This is abysmal, but we have names to look up, and a suspect, albeit forty years later, to inquire about,” Sherlock said in a business-like way. “The school library may prove to have something else on the matter now that we can narrow our scopes. Additionally, we need to get our hands on the registrar of pupils from the forties. Who was the student that exposed Rubeus Hagrid? Who were the other students attacked? What kind of injuries? We have a lot of work to do.” He stopped to look at them, face serious. “I know John is willing to dedicate his time to the matter, but are you, Lestrade? We’ll probably spend a lot of time in the library, even more so probably breaking school rules if we have to sneak out after dark.”

“What on earth will require us to sneak out of the castle this time around?” John asked incredulously. “You know what? I don’t care. I actually want to see what your brilliant mind sees in these scattered notes. Of course I’m in. Nothing new, sneaking out after dark with you.”

Sherlock gave him a warm smile, the one that melted John from the inside - the genuine smile Sherlock usually reserved for him when he didn’t act like a prat. 

“Are you both fucking serious?” Greg gaped. “I mean, I know you told me you went out once, and you were docked points for that too, but _repeatedly_? My dad would kill me!”

“We got more efficient at it,” John promised, amused by the horrified look Greg shot him. “What, are you scared?”

“Of you two lunatics? Nah. I’ll take you tossers on like nothing. I’m fucking scared of McGonagall coming for our arses. Or some Prefects. Or, oh God, Snape or even worse - Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore may be reprimanding, but he isn’t nearly as stern as McGonagall,” Sherlock argued. “Just watch him during the feasts. He likes to joke around, he’s nowhere near as threatening as the other teachers.”

“You can’t know that,” Greg said, crossing his arms. “The least threatening people can kick your sorry arse the most, usually. But I concede your point. It probably would be better to stumble upon him than the other teachers.”

“Flitwick isn’t too scary either,” John said, getting a giggle out of Greg. “Hey, I don’t mean it in regards to his height. Though yes, it is a factor. But he’s just too tired to get angry at you in the middle of the night. He just decks points. McGonagall trashes you with detention that may as well last a lifetime.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock waved a hand impatiently. “Let’s save this debate for when we are about to get caught, shall we? Are you in, Gavin, or not?”

Greg let out a resigned sigh, forgetting all about Sherlock messing up his name. “If you thought you’d get rid of me that easily, you’re wrong. You agreed to let me help, so I will. The Chamber of Secrets is quite interesting, I wanna see how it plays out.”

“Good. That’s… good.”

“But if I’m found with you after our curfew, I’m ditching you and saying that I was about to rattle you out,” Greg said with a grin. 

“Git,” John laughed, shoving Greg in the arm good-naturedly. “Maybe we’ll spin it around that _you_ were the one sneaking out.”

“John, please. No one’s going to believe us at this point,” Sherlock arched an eyebrow, making Greg laugh hard. “So, are we all in the clear? If all of us are doing this, I need you to be in one-hundred percent.”

John looked at Greg, a telepathic agreement passing between them. They nodded, selling themselves to this case, albeit cold. 

“We’re in!”

And, starting September first, they got down to solving the mystery of the Chamber of Secrets. But, unbeknownst to them, it would reveal far more than what they had expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheeeeeee, I swear I could write about the domestics all day. Honestly? I could write Order of the Phoenix sized books of these three guys, have them explore their opposite worlds and just enjoy themselves during their Hogwarts years (while they can, heh). So, more summer interludes like these are coming for sure in the future.
> 
> What did you like the best? I had fun writing the pizza scene - did you know that [it was invented in 1962 in CANADA by a Greek man named Sam Panopoulos?](https://www.foodnetwork.ca/shows/great-canadian-cookbook/blog/the-history-of-hawaiian-pizza/)  
> Personally, I have nothing against it (yet) because I haven't eaten it though the idea is.... odd. I may give it a try. For the time being, we have John who hates it, Sherlock who is 50/50, and Greg who loves it. Perfectly balanced, as all things should be~ Do you like pineapple on your pizza?
> 
> No lizards were harmed during the making of this chapter! Although, I did catch them as a lil kid to get a better look at them. I don't know how they're named properly in English, in Slovak they're called 'jašterica krátkohlavá', or Latin - lacerta agilis. They're cute :3 though they /can/ bite, but only like, squeeze your finger with pressure, nothing else. And they're protected by law! SO MANY FACTS!
> 
> Oh, and there's more coming with Queen and Bowie! This is just the beginning! I have a lot of things in mind :3
> 
> You can find me on tumblr as [majesticnerdyvee](https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/)  
> I have a fanfiction (gravity falls sherlock au) in the making, and my friend [jasombee](https://jasombee.tumblr.com/) did (is doing) some amazing fanart, and we did character calls for [Irene Adler](https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/post/625271554734948352/reichenbach-call-1), [Sherlock](https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/post/625821745484627968/our-next-kid-to-get-called-isss-sherlock?is_related_post=1), [and John](https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/post/626605620583350273/reichenbach-call-3?is_related_post=1).
> 
> We have one more character call for the upcoming Season 1 of the fic to go through in a few days, so go follow Bee to know when it hits (and for more of her other art), and if you want to also me, I always reblog it with a bit more additional info about our lovely characters :) Fic drops on September 1st, keep an eye out y'all!
> 
> Thank you for reading again, I appreciate it deeply, and I love writing and sharing this with you all. Y'all butter my croissants! (that sounds dirtier than I intended, now you saw the curseth thing)
> 
> Published: 19.8.2020  
> Words: 11141
> 
> I'll see you in September, maybe with a surprise!  
> Take care,
> 
> -Vee


	9. Third Year Gets In The Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I'm back with another chapter, albeit a short one. I will explain how this fic will move forward from now on in the end chapter notes, so please give that a read to know how we'll progress.   
> Apologies if it's chaotic, chemistry and biology seminars are killing me but I didn't want to skip out on an update x) Thank you all that read this fic! Next one will finally be with Draco and Harry back in '94!
> 
> PS: apologies for any typos, I didn't have time to proof read and I am not British either, feel free to britpick me!

Sherlock sighed. His head fell back, neck arched on the uncomfortable, wooden back of his library chair. He sighed again. No response from John, who sat next to him, back hunched over the table as he tried to concentrate on a text for their Transfiguration homework. 

Sherlock, naturally, didn’t bother with it until the last minute. It was _ridiculously_ easy to grasp the concepts and techniques, and he even had suggestions for minor improvements he’d propose to Professor McGonagall. Hers were, obviously, flawless as they came and she was probably the only teacher Sherlock respected endlessly, even though he couldn’t resist testing her limits on every opportunity he got. 

He sighed once more, this time with exaggerated exhalation from deep within his lungs. John stirred, but still didn’t do as much as roll his shoulders, three-quarters of his body turned to the book he was reading. Sherlock turned on his chair on his right side and pierced John’s figure speculatively. 

They’ve been back at Hogwarts for a month. His original plan was to get down to research immediately, but he underestimated the teachers’ ability to flood them with homework - which he postponed as he could, but he had to reluctantly admit that well, even he got overwhelmed a tiny bit. Don’t tell John or Gavin. They’d tease him mercilessly. 

Wish as he might, John wasn’t as willing to postpone _his_ side of studies as Sherlock used to, which proved itself to be a problem. Sherlock was getting bored more and more, his restlessness growing by the day as tree leaves changed colour with the season and died. He felt that he, too, was dying out of boredom. Oh, nature understood him. John did as well, but he was adamant about his duties and responsibilities. It would be dull if it didn’t concern John - that was a troubling statement on its own, one that Sherlock found his mind being occupied with just as much. 

But Hogwarts’ student library wasn’t exactly a romantic place to have his sudden epiphanies and reveries in. He pushed _feelings_ to the back of his mind and sighed again as a channeling of his thoughts to the now. When John didn’t react - though he did stir his legs aggravatedly - Sherlock blew on him. His blond hair ruffled slightly under the faint pressure of warm air and his chest expanded slowly. Sherlock noted the progress of getting the Gryffindor’s attention. 

“Hmmmm,” Sherlock purred with desperate undertones. The librarian was far enough not to scold him for the volume of his vocal chords. Sherlock watched John closely; his will not to look at the Ravenclaw boy almost broke, but he diligently kept his eyes glued to the page he was stuck on. “Hmmmmmm.” 

A deep sigh different than Sherlock’s followed and he bit on his lip to suppress the victorious smile. John had resisted for fifteen minutes and forty-seven seconds. A minute more than yesterday. Sherlock’ didn’t like that he was essentially building up John’s resilience to his calls for help, but alas. He always gave in, in the end. Impeccable Gryffindor, he was. 

Sherlock remained slouched on his chair as John turned sideways to cast him a bemused look. “You could help me get over with homework and do yours at the same time, you know,” John said, crossing his arms. Sherlock pouted, as if not understanding the simplicity of such an idiotic suggestion. 

“And get a hunch as a result?” Sherlock arched a sardonic eyebrow, straightening himself on the chair automatically. “No, thank you. I need to have my back straight as a rod if I want to loom over people in the future.” He frowned at John’s snort. “What?”

“You’re still not taller than me,” John smirked, seeming too pleased by the fact that was decidedly _not_ true. “Hey, I am simply stating the truth, genius. You should respect that.”

“I’ll grow this year,” Sherlock sulked, eliciting a laugh from John. It tingled in his chest lightly and warmly, and he certainly wanted to hear it more. “I’m serious, _Watson_. I’ll spite your own growth and you’ll beg me to handle you objects from shelves that are above you that you cannot reach.”

“Sure,” John said, one corner of his mouth curved upwards. 

“Given the height of your parents, you should stop growing at sixteen,” Sherlock said, more to himself but loud enough for John to hear all the same. “Slightly below average, I think, but that is only an estimation.”

“Oi! For all you know, we can be stuck on the same height,” John swatted him with a rolled up scrap piece of parchment playfully. But Sherlock more or less knew he was right, Mummy told him he would shoot up like a tree soon. Mycroft was also quite tall, though he didn’t want to compare himself to him. He used to when he was smaller, and he wanted them to be equal, but now that Mycroft started a job at the Ministry of Magic and he became distant… Not anymore. They deviated from each other more and more, and deep within it made Sherlock sad and disappointed. 

“Nope,” Sherlock shook his head, curls bouncing with the flow. “Even Lestrade will be a tad taller than you. I’ll be the tallest and then you can stand in my shadow.”

“Yeah, and you can tell me about the weather, too.”

“I’ll stare you down.”

“I’ll tackle you down.”

“I will crowd you to the nearest wall until you cowardly run away and acknowledge I am, in fact, simply right.”

“I don’t have to,” John smiled, closing his Transfiguration book. He started gathering his things and putting them into his backpack. “You are right most of the time, that much is true. Occasionally, your hand almost gets eaten by a cursed book, your spells backfire, or your mouth goes on and on and other people don’t appreciate it. But well, you say what you see and you don’t sugarcoat. I appreciate that. Greg too, to a degree. But you’re forgetting the most important thing.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed in mild confusion. “Which is?” Things and observations normally didn’t escape him. 

John threw his backpack over his right shoulder and jerked his head to the entrance for Sherlock to follow. “I will be able to see your boogers if you’re taller than me.”

“That’s disgusting,” Sherlock declared, pushing the library door open as it creaked loudly in the corridor. “We should get started on the case.”

“What case? Did someone ask you to find their pet again?”

“No. Dull. I mean the Chamber of Secrets, do keep up. We’ve wasted enough time.”

“Ah. I’d forget. Mike wasn’t kidding when he said that workload gets worse by the year. It’s distracting.”

“What Mike?”

“Stamford? Tall bloke, bit chubby in the face, kind soul. He helped me get around in First Year.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock said sarcastically, minding the invisible step on the stairs. John flicked him on the ear, a look of disapproval on his face. Sherlock didn’t understand why and cocked an eyebrow in silent inquiry. “What?”

“Mike’s a good guy. And I think you should be more serious about our homework,” John replied, skipping the last two steps, jumping down on the cold marble floor. It was getting late, fires lighting the way for them to the Great Hall. John insisted on them going to dinner every day; it was tedious, but Sherlock indulged him. Keeping John happy was an easy task this way, and Sherlock found out he loved it when John was happy. 

And as such, John’s happiness was among his top ten priorities. It was astounding how attached he grew to the Gryffindor and (to a lesser degree) that Hufflepuff Lestrade as well, though he would rather lick the floor in the dungeons than admit it. But John? Well, he wouldn’t hurry with admitting that he likes his company either. Not yet. It’s a bit of a hopeless situation, really… And it should be completely irrelevant! Stupid brain… 

Sherlock was so deep in his mind that he didn’t notice how he crashed into a Fifth Year until after he fell to the floor like a stack of dropped books. His attention caught up with his vision as he landed on his butt, the unpleasant reality overtaking his senses. 

“Watch out where you’re going, freak.” It was Anderson. The two years older, still-bitter Hufflepuff Prefect that despised his skin since he had exposed him for stealing Potion ingredients and selling them in Knockturn Alley. Then last year, there was a confrontation during their ride to Hogwarts, which was interrupted by John (gladly welcome) and eventually Mycroft (dully and reluctantly accepted).

Sherlock did not care about the nicknames other students muttered under their breaths; it didn’t affect him directly and what good would it do? But apparently, John did care. He cared so much that he stuck out a leg in front of Anderson and he tripped, falling over and face-down. His classmates laughed, and the Prefect was furious. 

“Oops,” John said, biting on the inside of his cheek, eyes serious and daring. His height couldn’t compare with how high his courage levels were. “Sorry mate. Didn’t see you there. Gotta go have dinner.”

Before Anderson managed to get out of his shock and embarrassment, John hauled Sherlock into the Great Hall, ushering him towards the Gryffindor table. Generally, members of different Houses mixed with each other with the exception when there were important events taking place where boring announcements were made. Now, at the end of September, though, no one cared whether a stray Ravenclaw sat among a sea of black-and-red.

“I hate that guy,” John muttered, grinding his teeth. He shoved his bag under the table, stepping over the bench and sitting down. Sherlock was more elegant in getting seated. 

“I don’t understand why you’re upset over him calling me a…”

“Because you’re not what he calls you, Sherlock!” John looked at him fiercely, plopping mashed potatoes down on his plate. Sherlock watched as his friend threw a nice, messy, chaotic dinner together and started consuming it like a rabid animal in between talking to him. “He’s just whining because of the fact that you solved Slughorn’s problem of his potion ingredients going missing. Even now he’s still denying he did anything, that hypocrite. And he thinks bullying others will make him feel better. I hate it.”

“But it doesn’t offend me, John,” he said, scrunching up his nose and eyebrows. “I don’t see the point of you getting upset over it, then. It doesn’t matter.”

“Well it does to me,” John argued, biting aggressively on a drum stick. A drop of grease landed on Sherlock’s pale hand, and he rubbed it off with the hem of his robes. “I won’t have anyone insulting you on my watch. Or I’ll have to exterminate them.”

Sherlock, recognising the magically mundane muggle reference, sat up straighter, ears pricking up and eyes glowing with excitement he didn’t let his face express as openly. “Truly, that would be a shame for them. Not for the daleks, though.”

“Not at all,” John sipped from his pumpkin juice, regarding Sherlock over the cup’s rim. “Oh, how’s Muggle Studies going?”

“Painfully slow,” Sherlock groaned, stealing a cut piece of chicken from John’s plate. Even if he didn’t plate his own food, John didn’t mind him taking some from him. If anything it made him overjoyed that he saw Sherlock eating at all since the latter could be quite forgetful. “I wish we got over the history now. I know most of it. I knew before as well, in fact. But the teacher is atrocious. It would be more bearable with you there.”

“You have Greg there with you.”

“Gawain is a horrible classmate,” Sherlock complained, picking up a spoon and digging into the mashed potatoes. “He’s constantly asking me questions and like you with Transfiguration, he keeps requesting my help with a few concepts.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard since you’re that smart.” Sherlock sensed sarcasm, but wasn’t sure if that was the case. “I thought you’d find it _dull_. Muggle world never seemed like your forte. Seems too easy for you.”

“I assumed you’d choose it for that exact reason.”

“Yeah, no. I lived surrounded by muggles for eleven years, I have enough knowledge to let it pass.”

“Hm.”

“What ‘hm’?”

“Nothing. Just hm.”

“Git.”

John resumed eating, Sherlock occasionally spooning bits and pieces off the plate. Students of all years came and went, the background blur of noises rising and falling. The Third Years chose at least two more subjects this year. Sherlock, after the successful sleepover at John’s humble place during summer holidays, decided that he was indeed intrigued even more by the close and yet distant muggle world. It was fascinating how they managed to function without magic, instead coming up with witty inventions. Truth be told, many of them would be useful even to wizards. The possibilities! Sherlock was determined to know everything about John’s half of the world. The quicker, the better. 

Sherlock’s other subjects of choice was Arithmancy, Study of Ancient Runes, and Care of Magical Creatures, to which he agreed after seeing that John had an interest in that area. Lestrade took Muggle Studies, Care of Magical Creatures, and Arithmancy - his father insisted that a future Auror has got to be well rounded in many areas. John chose the minimum of two required subjects: Care of Magical Creatures and Divination. A ridiculous choice, in Sherlock’s opinion. Divination was a flimsy branch of magic; never too accurate nor precise, unlike Artithmany or Potions. 

Well, at least he and John shared more subjects this year. Potions, then Care of Magical Creatures with Professor Kettleburn - that man had a bed in the Hospital Wing reserved all for himself - and Transfiguration again. Sherlock was, overall, satisfied with the schedule. 

What he wasn’t satisfied with was the bloody murder centered around the bloody Chamber of the bloody Secrets. He hated secrets. That’s why he deduced them. And this one was making itself difficult, which only infuriated and intrigued him further at the same time. 

They spent hours in the library every day - the place being one of Sherlock’s few sanctuaries. However, his thorough search even behind the librarian’s back yielded no results nor bore the figurative fruits as he tried to snoop out information or registers from the forties. It could be expected that the records wouldn’t be there; but then again, oftentimes people hide them in plain sight. Maybe they were in the Headmaster’s office…. One way or another, they had to get their hands on them. 

The teachers were out of the question; he had tried to persuade them to tell him more about the Chamber, but all had brushed him off, most of them with a scolding. Well, how else was he supposed to solve it, then? None of them appreciated his genius. Technically, he could ask Mycroft for the records, but that would be too easy and he had no desire to see his posh face or to hear his questions as to why he needed them. 

One positive was that they knew where Hagrid, the alleged culprit, was. Sherlock took to observing him during dinners, if he was attending. The gamekeeper was cheerful, friendly (overly, if you asked him), and a little bit oafish. He sometimes helped out Professor Kettleburn during Care of Magical Creatures, but he shyly refused to participate openly during classes. He kept his distance in front of the pupils. Hm. That could be tied to that Acrumantula factor that got him expelled. Undoubtedly the pupils had grandparents that knew him back in the day, and perhaps he feared what would happen if someone said he helped the Professor during the more difficult classes?

Then there was the death of the muggleborn girl, Myrtle Warren. Sherlock would prefer interrogating her parents, relatives, anyone who knew her, but he had no way of reaching out to them from Hogwarts. Were their memories wiped out? Possible, the death of their child was possibly quite traumatic. Besides, other than their daughter, nothing else linked them to the magical world. Again, this is where the record of pupils and Myrtle’s classmates would prove invaluable to have. He may have to reconsider writing to Mycroft… or Dad. Dad was a better option, he decided. Yes. 

“Ground control to major Holmes, can you hear me, major Holmes?” 

A square hand waved in front of his eyes that absentmindedly gazed in the direction of the teachers’ tables. Today, Rubeus Hagrid didn’t come to the Great Hall. “What do you want?” Sherlock snapped, blinking the movement away. 

“You got lost in that head of yours again,” John laughed, lips quirking up in a mischievous smile as he regarded Sherlock warmly. “Was the food good?”

“Adequate,” Sherlock acknowledged, thinking it was delicious. Not that he was going to say so out loud. 

“Says you who ate half my serving,” John said smugly, elbowing him in the ribs. Sherlock dodged the attack, retaliating with the spoon. It clinked against John’s knuckles, and he let out a hissed ‘ouch!’ before he lifted it to his mouth to blow on the hurt skin and bones. 

Sherlock felt a pang of guilt and opened his mouth to say something, but John caught his eyes and giggled. “I’m just messing with you,” he said, waving his fingers about. “It didn’t hurt at all. Now. What were you thinking about? What do we do about the Chamber?”

“To what do I owe the pleasure of you finally bringing up the case yourself?” Sherlock said, excitement bubbling up in him. The Great Hall cleared out student by student, many of whom were going to socialise or drown in homework. Or both. 

John smacked Sherlock with his robes that he shrugged off. Now he sat there in his white shirt and red-and-gold Gryffindor tie. “Shush. You know we didn’t have much time.”

“No, _you_ didn’t have much time,” Sherlock corrected him. He took out a piece of parchment he filled out during their boring History of Magic class. “I have time at any moment I please.”

“That’s why you’re flunking on Astronomy.”

“No, Astronomy is just not worth the space in my Mind Palace.”

“Sure. Or, maybe you just don’t know something for once.”

Sherlock’s neck snapped to the left as he fixed John a glare, who looked too pleased with himself. He opened and closed his mouth, but Lestrade’s timely interruption saved his stunned embarrassment. This wasn’t over!

“I hate Transfiguration essays,” Lestrade seethed. He rudely sat between Sherlock and John, his backpack plopping to the ground. He also shrugged off his robes and began devouring any food present in front of him. “Why does it matter what swoosh and this and that I use for spell casting? Fuck that.”

“Aren’t you a happy little badger tonight,” John said, biting his lip so as not to break down laughing. The mirth in his eyes was infectious. Sherlock felt a wave of amusement as well. John looked at Sherlock, nodding his head for him to continue. 

Sherlock then retold them everything he contemplated as he nibbed dinner from John’s plate, the two of them listening eagerly to him. “Yeah, we didn’t think it through, did we,” Lestrade said after Sherlock finished speaking. “I doubt my grandpa will be able to give me the records; as I said, it wasn’t his case.”

“Maybe we can ask Mycroft for help,” John suggested, to which Sherlock vehemently shook his head in disapproval. 

“No. We’re not asking my brother for help,” he said, clipping every word. John looked surprised, jerking his chin up in question, but Sherlock ignored it. “I will send an owl to my Dad to see whether he knows anyone who fits in the time frame. With a name, we can investigate whether the persons have family members in here and then we can move forward.”

“Sounds a bit too complicated,” Lestrade said, mouth full of chicken and peas. “Sure you won’t just write to your brother?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“None of your business.”

“Git. I’m just trying to make it easier for us.”

“Where would the fun be in that?” Sherlock said, folding up the parchment paper with his mind notes. It all felt more solidified now that he said it to them. “If you don’t like the chase, then you don’t have to solve it with us.”

“Trying to drive me out, huh?” Lestrade gave him a bemused look, and John looked disapproving himself. Why? It was perfectly logical that if he kept complaining, he could (and should) go. “Too bad. You’re not getting rid of this badger. Suck it up, Holmes.”

“Whatever, Gabe. Ouch! What was that for?” Sherlock rubbed his cheek angrily. Lestrade threw a grape at him. 

“For messing up my name again.”

“Boys, manners,” John scolded them, rolling his eyes. Sherlock repeated the gesture, getting tired of this interaction. “But I think that while we’re waiting for Sherlock’s Dad’s response, we should do something about the gamekeeper.”

“Agreed, John,” Sherlock nodded, gathering his things. “We have to befriend him.” Lestrade snorted. John tilted his head in a contemplative way. “What?”

“You’re not exactly the definition of friendly, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, licking grease off his fingers and wiping them on his robes. Disgusting. And rude. 

“I can be perfectly friendly when I wish to be,” he pouted, straightening his back as a defense mechanism. 

“Yeah, sure. Like when you forget people’s names.”

“I remember John’s.”

“You mess mine up all the time!”

“John, tell him I can be friendly!”

“Yeah, uh, I’d rather not get into this,” John said, toying with his tie. Sherlock gaped, and Lestrade looked smug. “But… you can be a bit blunt sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Lestrade said teasingly, bumping shoulders with both of them. “He made Anne Hathnoway cry in Potions when she asked for help.”

“I merely pointed out her flawed techniques, don’t be dramatic.”

“Whatever, but my point still stands. I heard from other Hufflepuffs that he is easy going but have you actually _seen_ him, Sherlock? He’s giant, he could squash your head with just his hands! I wouldn’t try your luck if I were you.”

“Your fear doesn’t concern me,” Sherlock said coolly, leading them upstairs. Lestrade shrugged, burping into his fist. He and John had the tendency to overstuff themselves like starved dogs. 

“Okay, but don’t come to me after the gamekeeper sets out to _exterminate_ you,” Lestrade waved them a cheeky goodbye, referencing Dr Who in turn. “Night, you lunatics.”

Sherlock didn’t bother responding, instead opting to hurry up the enchanted stairs. John had to run to catch up with him. They stood in silence as the stairs moved to get them to another set. “John, I’d like you to accompany me on the task of befriending Rubeus Hagrid,” he said eventually. He weighed what Lestrade had said. While it was true that he didn’t mind others despising him, this time his reputation could marr his goal. 

“I thought that was obvious?” John elbowed him amiably, resting his hand on his shoulder, sending a wave of warmth throughout Sherlock’s body. “Hey, you know Greg was joking, right? You’re his friend, too.”

“Friend is a bit of a stretch, really, John.”

“Oi, don’t be rude. He means well. His dad is a bit strict, is all. He’s used to saying what he thinks like you, but he has a social filter.”

“Tedious. Say everything or nothing.”

“Yeah, sometimes it’s good. But sometimes, not so much.”

Sherlock exhaled through his nose. Perhaps John had a point, though he really did not see why he should mask his honesty. It was better to flat out say the truth than sugarcoat reality. Not an opinion many shared with him. 

“You will have to tell me, then,” Sherlock told him, stopping at a platform that forked ways to their different towers. “When I’m… not good.”

John gave him a smile and squeezed his arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry. Maybe it can be your new experiment. See how much you can endure without snapping?”

“Maybe. Goodnight, John. We’re starting tomorrow. Operation: Chamber of Secrets begins after classes!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, school said 'fuck you' to me and flooded me woth work. That's why we didn't come to a conclusion of their whole third year this chapter, sorry folks. Anyway, we got... kinda in the head of Sherlock and saw some interesting... developments? Yeah, our boy is getting attached already, but he doesn't know what it is yet himself, hah.
> 
> BUT!
> 
> As I said earlier, Drarry is coming, especially for those who aren't really into Sherlock. 
> 
> What I plan to do is post every two weeks now. I decided that from now on, this will be the 'flashback' time period for both johnlock and drarry timelines. So essentially, one chapter will be drarry, the next one johnlock, the other drarry again etc. until we get to the 'current' events in '97. I think that will work the best and will be the least confusing for everyone. I'll also go back and write it as a heads up on earlier chapters.   
> Drarry chapters will land on the 6th, johnlock on the 20th. They'll probably also be shorter. Finally, I found a way of balancing my fave ships, I think. If I get the time, the chapters will be longer and therefore also cover more, we will see.   
> Generally, the tags and other things around this fic need a bit of maintenance... So... I'll do that bit by bit...  
> Sounds good?  
> Let's see how it goes, then :)
> 
> On another note, myy other fic with pre-written chapters [Reichenbach Falls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26233390?view_full_work=true), which is a Gravity Falls AU (though you needn't have watched the show to understand the fic) has today officially landed the first five chapters of its first episode of 20! Feel free to pop by if you're interested :) And feel free to comment there or here, too! :D
> 
> I'll see you in two weeks with our enemies to friends to lovers idiots in '94 ;)
> 
> Updated: 20.9. 2020  
> Words: 4032
> 
> Thank you for reading and I wish you all a pleasant day/night, wherever you are~
> 
> -Vee


	10. Sunday Before Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: 1994, November, one day after the Goblet of Fire chose the Champions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, giving a kudo, or commenting! It means a heluva lot for me <3 Enjoy the new, albeit short chapter!  
> Apologies for any mistakes, this is not proofread nor britpicked, sorry! I'm in a bit of a hurry :p

Blake knew coming to Britain would be a slight culture shock. It was. He had somehow adjusted over the past five months, however, and considered himself quite blended in - at least until his accent gave him away. He was prepared for it all; the rounded r’s, the posh looks, the gloomy weather that was in truth quite lovely, hell, even the whole ordeal of driving on the left as he observed muggles in London earlier in the year as he visited Diagon Alley. 

What Blake wasn’t prepared for were two things. 

One, Hogwarts was _huge_. Gigantic. _Majestic_. Oh yes, especially that. Ancient magic indeed. The castle was mesmerizing and you could feel ye olde spells wrinkling your hair still in the sleepy, Sunday mornings. Ah. In America, his aunt would have called him to the kitchen for breakfast (croissants with jam, hmm) and ruffled his hair playfully, messing it up even further. Those were the good times. 

The second thing…. 

“Hi! How are you? You're Blake Selcout, right? Could you sign my backpack? I have a special quill just for the occasion!” 

The onslaught during this breakfast quickly became overwhelming and unbearable. Girls from Slytherin started gathering around him, one by one, as if he were an untamed forest animal that they wanted to domesticate. They weren’t far off - he certainly felt like a hunted prey. Why did they care now, anyway? Since the beginning of the year he mostly blended in with the marble walls and tapestries, invisible to their amiable cliques. If it weren’t for Cedric’s obnoxious friendliness that rubbed off on him, he wouldn’t be in this spot. Speaking of the devil…. 

“Already getting dates?” a strong hand clasped him on the shoulder, shaking him good-naturedly. Blake had only just signed _another_ bag in addition to a piece of parchment when Cedric took the recently vacated seat next to him at the Slytherin table. "You don't pass as a ladie's man." 

Blake scoffed, snatching the hem of his robes from under Cedric’s thighs. "I'm no one's man. Well, at least I wasn't. Suddenly everyone seems to have adopted me as a celebrity." 

"That's a bit exciting, isn't it?" Cedric bumped his knee with his own. He poured himself some orange juice, stealing fried bacon from Blake's abandoned plate. 

"Exciting as in having a fan base or the potential of getting killed halfway through the Tournament so that people can bet and earn money?" 

"Both. But stop being so pessimistic! The Tournament doesn't happen every year." 

"I wonder why," Blake muttered, shivering as he remembered a detailed description of what happened to one champion five minutes into their first task. The decapitation wasn't clean by any means. Ew. 

"Well, take it as an exotic experience from England," Cedric grinned. "It won't be that bad. Any idea what the first task is?" 

"Nope," Blake shook his head, hanging it low so as to avoid any lingering, giddy looks. "Nothing yet. We've just been announced yesterday!" 

"Yeah, but you never know when they pile it up on you," Cedric shrugged. "We'll see. I could help you with whatever comes up, if you need." 

"Thank you. Good thing you offered, you owe me after getting me in this mess," Blake said, arching an eyebrow, though his good spirits were back. Cedric was a good friend. 

"I'm aware," Cedric patted him on the back, rather forcefully and Blake choked on his saliva upon the sudden assault. "Let's go to the library? Maybe we can get some schoolwork done." 

Blake made a noncommittal sound and gathered his belongings. Half the Slytherin table was occupied, and most eyes were on him, though they did back off a little after yesterday's Potter fiasco. Honestly, what was wrong with Potter? If anything, he was beyond pissed that he's stuck in the Tournament. The other Hogwarts Houses, he wasn't sure what they thought of him. He was glad to leave before the Great Hall flooded with more people.

He noticed, however, that a few girls kept tailing them across the castle. Cedric didn't seem to notice, treading up the moving stairs as if it were a casual morning, minus the happy whistling. 

Blake risked a glance over his shoulder; a mistake, since it made his heart rate speed up and his back went rigid as he picked up his pace. Cedric and he were both tall, but Blake topped him by a centimeter or two. He didn't miss Cedric’s faint smirk. 

The girls behind them giggled, and a flush kept up Blake's cheeks. God damnit. Where was anonymity the castle promised? It was enormous and yet they stumbled upon his 'fans' on every corner. 

"I'm not studying surrounded by stalkers," Blake said grumpily, casting Cedric a fleeting glance. _Get us out of here_. 

"I didn't think so!" Cedric said cheerily, looking over his shoulder as well, smiling at the girls who stopped to pretend they were talking with each other. 

And before Blake knew it, he was being dragged behind the nearest pillar past the corner. It served right that the library door opened and closed with a bang at the same time; a courtesy of Peeves the Poltergeist who decided now was a good time to pull pranks with water balloons. _Thank goodness for that pain in the ass_. 

A few ear-piercing shrieks later the hallway was cleared of any giggles and stalkers, although Peeves remained. He made fun of Blake and Cedric as they rushed back downstairs by a slightly altered route that involved the latter to practically drag Blake out of the confines of the castle out on fresh air faster than anyone could've registered. 

"Peeves made escaping easier," Blake breathed, his lungs burning a little. He was out of shape. No wonder, he spent the summer huddled inside his aunt's cottage, mulling over his Seventh Year books. How did the Goblet choose him again? 

"He has his uses," Cedric agreed, patting him on the back. He readjusted his backpack on his shoulders, prodding Blake to walk with him. They didn't have classes since it was Sunday, but he still carried something in it. 

Blake followed Cedric, enjoying the faint breeze on his face. It was November now, and he had to wear sweaters and extra thick socks not to have his toes get frostbite, but on this particular Sunday, the sun was up and shining, though not as warmly as it could have. The nature had already begun to wither, leaves orange and red, the grass wilting to a yellowish tint. 

The two stopped near the lake, the giant squid’s large tentacles tanning despite the lack of temperature. How did it get there? Blake wasn’t able to find out from any available sources. He may have to ask around. 

“So, why did you drag me outside and not to the kitchens?” Blake asked, staring at the silver surface of the water. His gaze fell down onto the tiny rocks underneath his feet; he bent and started picking out the flattest pieces. 

“Cho wanted to meet us,” Cedric shrugged, dropping the backpack to his feet. He rummaged through it, offering Blake a small mug. “And I brought hot chocolate to celebrate.” 

“Hot chocolate?”

“Well, fire whisky isn’t exactly the easiest good to smuggle in. Besides, we need to sweeten up your sour attitude.”

“What would you do in my place, then?” Blake quirked an eyebrow, waiting for Cedric to pour the hot liquid into his mug from a flask. 

“I dunno,” Cedric admitted, casting a look behind his shoulder, then at Blake. “Probably wait and see what happens and react accordingly. There’s no point in overthinking this.”

“You have a point,” Blake conceded, blowing on his chocolate as not to burn his lips or tongue on it. “What did Cho think?”

“She was concerned. She saw the look on your face and wondered how you felt.”

“Pretty weird, thank you for asking.”

“Hi Blake! Have I heard my name?” the voice of Cho Chang, Cedric’s and his friend from Ravenclaw, sounded cheerily in the damp air. Blake huffed as she pulled him into a bear hug, patting him softly on both arms. She was in her Sixth Year at Hogwarts, one year below theirs. 

She asked about what happened after he was sent to a room off-sight from the Great Hall. Blake retold them everything; how the other Headmasters reacted to having two Hogwarts champions, how that Karkaroff guy seemed especially displeased, and how Dumbledore believed that Harry was innocent in this. A point he and Cho shared, though Cedric seemed to be fifty-fifty about it. 

“Why would he want to get in?” Blake said, brows furrowed at his friend’s reluctance to face the obvious facts. “He’s had enough. You should have seen his face. Even the whole of Slytherin thinks he got in for the attention.”

Cedric and Cho exchanged glances. That confused Blake even further. “What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well…” Cho started, crossing arms across her chest to stop the shivers. Cedric offered her the rest of the hot chocolate, but she refused with a warm smile of her own which he reciprocated. “Slytherin and Gryffindor don’t get along in general. And well, Harry has this rivalry going on with this other boy - Draco Malfoy? Padma Patil has her sister Parvati in Gryffindor, so she could tell you more about that. But the tension gets worse before Quidditch matches for sure.”

“But…”

“That’s just how it is,” Cedric said by a way of distant apology. He motioned for them to walk by the length of the lake. Blake had questions, but he figured it wasn’t worth getting worked up over it now. 

But Draco Malfoy - the boy who introduced himself to him yesterday - did he really have a ‘rivalry’ going on with Harry Potter? Why? This is so confusing. What is up with everyone? He would really welcome a swing of fire whiskey right now… 

As the three of them approached the Owlery, Cho and Cedric wanted to turn around and walk back to the castle - the weather became windier by the minute. They were talking about Cedric and Blake’s N.E.W.Ts and how their Professors seem to dump a pile of eternal knowledge on them with the expectation that they already know everything. 

“You two go ahead,” Blake told them, fishing an envelope out of his bag. “I have to send my aunt a letter.”

They bid each other farewell, Cho giving him one last, brief hug and they departed. Blake made it quick, careful not to fall over his robes or slip on the narrow stairs leading up into the Owlery. 

“First Ron, then you,” he heard an angry voice say. “ _This isn’t my fault_.”

A flutter of wings and a pair shuffling of feet later, Blake found himself facing a very put out Harry and a girl with bushy hair accompanying him. “Oh. Hi. Uhm.”

“Hi,” Harry said stiffly, shifting where he stood. The girl next to him looked Blake over, her dark brown eyes skimming critically over him; he felt strangely exposed. 

“How are you feeling?” Blake asked, trying to sound as sincere as he felt. How old was Harry? Fourteen? He himself is seventeen going on eighteen and he is feeling out of his depth. And he doesn’t even get the ‘liar’ sticker. 

“Oh, just miserable, thank you for asking!” Harry quipped with fake happiness. His friend grimaced at what he did, and Blake had a feeling he only made matters worse. Harry moved to dart past Blake, but he caught him by the elbow, an apologetic look on his face. 

“Sorry,” Blake said, not knowing how to proceed. “I just… I really do believe you. That you’re innocent in this. And sorry that my comment yesterday about who may want you dead…. I’m not particularly good when talking to others.”

Harry let out a deep sigh. He kept his eyes on the ground, nodding ever so slightly. When he looked up at Blake through his round, black-rimmed glasses, there was a distantly pained expression behind the young face’s somewhat calm facade. “Thanks.”

Blake gave him a lopsided grin, nodded, and stepped inside to allow Harry’s friend to exit as well. They didn’t change any more words, but the girl shot Blake a curious and similarly thankful smile. 

He found his owl - Bohemia - tied the envelope to her, gave her a treat, and let her carry a message to his dear aunt. Standing outside, he watched Bohemia vanish in the sky, her aviator body becoming smaller and smaller until she was nothing but a mere black dot on the horizon. 

An unsettling feeling dropped like a stone in his stomach. What would his aunt think? She probably won’t be angry, but one never knew. He asked for any advice she could give him. Now he had to wait.

Little did he or Harry know, the problems were just beginning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry this chapter is hella short and hella weak and probably hella all over the place (I'm flooded with schoolwork), but I promised that an update wuld be given today, so it is happening because mama raised no quitter. The plot is finally picking up on this timeline too. I will see what I can do and maybe/maybehaps/ I will write a follow up sooner for this, but no promises. If anything, next Harry-Draco-Blake timeline chapter is back on the 6th November :)
> 
> What do you think will happen next? And what do you think of Blake, our Slytherin champion? 
> 
> Next chapter will, hopefully, be more action-packed. Stay tuned folks! 
> 
> Next update on the 20th, it will be back to John and Sherlock's 3rd year, continuing their investigation of the Chamber of Secrets. 
> 
> See you in two weeks! Take care & stay healthy~
> 
> My other fic: [Reichenbach Falls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26233390/chapters/63849742) \- a Gravity Falls AU of Sherlock, a johnlock fic. You don't need to have watched the show to enjoy the fic :) Feel free to pop by!  
> My humble tumblr: [majesticnerdyvee](https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Updated: 6.10. 2020  
> Word count: 2156
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I wish you all a very nice day/night, wherever you are~
> 
> -Vee


	11. Spilling Tea, Leaves, and Talons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: 1983, end of September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Back with another chapter, alebit short. We went distance studying in Slovakia again, and it's a bit tougher than the first quarantine, but! I!! wrote!!! something!!!! anyway!!!!! Wheeeeee!!!!!!  
> We also surpassed 1.5k hits, like whoa :0 that's pretty cool, y'all, thanks to you who click! Yes, you! Cookies for you! we also have a vegan option for anyone interested~  
> Now no more talking, let's a ~go~ to Hogwarts, my comfort place.   
> Not beta'd much, only content-wise, sorry for any erros, feel free to point them out!

Operation: Chamber of Secrets indeed began the next day after classes. However, Sherlock wasn’t nearly as specific as John had hoped he would. Erratic, that git was. John expected Sherlock to swoop him around and rush him off to some unspecified location right as the last ring bell, but nothing of that sort happened. In fact, Sherlock behaved very tame that day. 

_Hmm_.

During dinner, John threw a few glances at his friend, who nitpicked his food, looking disinterested as ever. _Hmmm_. What was up with him? Mood swings? From what? Yesterday, he was excited to start this hunt after ancient secrets and a murder mystery (which, by the way, was still pretty creepy and unsettling) and now he was patiently sitting at his House table like an obedient puppy. Yes, puppy - though at least he hasn’t mastered John’s puppy-eyed stare yet. 

When he looked around the Great Hall, he could see Greg stuffing himself with a chicken drumstick as he talked with his Quidditch teammate. They were a cool bunch, the teams. John wished he could join, but he didn’t have the money to buy a lasting broom, and his parents probably wouldn’t allow it. It was a miracle that no one busted them flying about this summer in the forest when Greg - against John’s wishes - brought his broom with him. The stars had aligned themselves nicely this year. It also helped that John’s dad was on a work trip on the other side of England that week. But maybe, just maybe, he could persuade his mom and dad to buy him a broom? He’ll have to ask Greg about the logistics and what would be a decent pick, but he can definitely give it a shot. He’s seen a few games of Quidditch in the past two years, and the game seemed to be more fun when one participated, although it was quite enjoyable from the seat too. Especially if you saw a Bludger chasing one of the players or if they were hit. 

“Had any luck with Divination homework?” Carl nudged John, drinking pumpkin juice. Carl took the class with him, which he was grateful for. At least some familiar face to share the future gossip with. Sherlock found it a waste of time and frankly, he had been right. Professor Trelawney was an alright, albeit interesting persona in her own merit, but John found her amusing. 

“Nope,” John said, popping a grape in his mouth. “Haven’t had time yet. McGonagall flooded us with another Transfiguration essay, remember?”

Carl facepalmed. “Damnit! I knew I forgot something!”

“Should I get you a Remembrall?” That earned John a shove in the shoulder, and he laughed, looking back to the Ravenclaw table where his eyes met Sherlock’s. A familiar warmth spread through him, eyes crinkling as he gave Sherlock a wink before turning back to Carl. “Anyway, we can do the Divination homework together back up in the Common Room.”

“Sounds good,” Carl nodded, finishing his slice of apple pie. “To be honest, I can’t believe how come she’s teaching here. Her style is so…. uncharacteristic.”

“I think she’s fine,” John said, shrugging. “Has a few loose marbles but I mean… Yeah, okay. I see your point. But I can’t imagine anyone else teaching Divination, honestly. She just fits the subject.”

“True. She’s still crazy, though.”

“Still salty about your life prediction?”

“Shut up. As if McGonagall didn’t warn us.”

“Can’t believe it till you see it, Carl,” John patted him on the back, reliving the memory of their first Divination lesson. 

It was a sunny September day, one of the last few that still carried a whim of summer with them. Sherlock scowled at him (again) for ever even considering taking up such classes before departing for his Ancient Runes class in a huff and whirl of his robes. John had a bit of a problem locating the classroom, which turned out to be in the North Tower. Upon arriving somewhat on time, he found his classmates waiting atop the stairwell. Everyone was perplexed where to go from there. Then all of a sudden, a ladder dropped down from a trap door, startling two Slytherin girls standing right under. 

Professor Trelawney greeted them uncharacteristically and grimly. To an extent it reminded John of BBC sketches, but he couldn’t laugh in class. The room smelled of incense, and a fellow Gryffindor muggleborn classmate almost got an asthma attack and had to sit by the window. 

Then they proceeded to observe Professor Trelawney in her natural habitat, charming a few boys and girls with her antics about predicting the future. John didn’t believe it per se, but he liked to have an open mind about the possibilities should they present themselves. Prior to the class, somebody asked Professor McGonagall about what to expect for Divination, to which she replied stiffly that it’s a flimsy branch of magic, the most unpredictable of them all. From her demeanour it was obvious that her opinion of the subject was… less than friendly, although she remained professional in her approach. 

What followed in the Divination classroom was reading from tea leaves and talons, so at least John could have a drink. He sat with Carl and Jim, so at least he had some pals. Jim was a bit distant and shy, but he was an alright bloke to hang out with. John was closer to Carl, and they shared the same dorm room too, so it was easier to talk to him, with Jim occasionally making a point here and there. He was more the silent observant type. Sometimes it unsettled John when he found his inquiring, if a bit calculating gaze on himself, but he brushed it off to the ‘divination’ fumes and the tea. Speaking of the, he was sure Professor Trelawney had it spiked with a special herb or two, perhaps some tasty bit of another liquid to complete the taste, but he didn’t want to be rude saying it out loud in case she’d hear him. 

After being left to their own devices, Divination books, and conspiracies about their future, Professor Trelawney had walked around the classroom aiding students in their interpretations. As she made her way across to the three Gryffindors, her glasses-enlarged eyes fell on Jim, then Carl, and then at John. 

“Let’s see how you are doing with the leaves, shall we?” Trelawney had said, standing between Jim and Carl. She took Jim’s teacup first, turning it around in her hands that were covered in bracelets. “Hm. Lots of rain and an umbrella. Definitely an annoyance of sorts coming your way, Mr Moriarty. Possibly difficulties, here, see this person right here? Do you have a good relationship with your family, dear?”

John’s eyebrows had met his hairline at that query, and he looked at Carl who shifted in his chair uncomfortably. Jim had gaped at Professor Trelawney, his jaw setting as he shrugged. 

“Well, it’s just a mild annoyance, dear,” Trelawney had said. “Goodness knows that family can be a bit of a pain, aren’t they? There’s a knife too, so be sure to avoid fighting or hatred - it could be a disaster for you.”

“Uhm… alright,” Jim had said, taking the cup back and staring into it, lips pursed. 

And then Professor Trlawney had moved onto Carl. Taking the teacup from his dark hands, she took one look at the porcelain before gasping and letting go. Carl had had just enough reflexes to save it from hitting the floor and breaking into pieces. 

“What’s wrong?” he had asked, confused. He inspected his cup thoroughly, brows knitted into a frown. 

“My dear boy,” Trelawney had sobbed into the crease of her elbow dramatically, “I’m afraid you have the omen of death!” Half the class had gasped at the proclamation. John observed what was happening silently, not wanting to get sentenced to death himself. 

“Death?”

“Yes, death! There’s a kettle in the middle position of the cup!” Trelawney had pointed at the precise place with a bony finger. “There is also a coffin here at the top! Oh, I’m afraid it will be a slow, painful death, my dear, I’m sorry to say. My! There’s also a fox! A close friend of you will stab you in the back!”

“What? I don’t think….”

“The tea leaves had spoken! But don’t worry, dear, you will not die this year,” Trelawney had said in a serious tone, and John had had to pinch himself under the table not to burst out laughing. Yeah, okay. He understood why the stoic McGonagall didn’t like Divination much. All laughter left him when the professor had turned to him in a whirl of robes, gaze inquisitive as if asking: ‘ _Hm, I wonder how painful your death will be?_ ’

John had handed her the cup without a word. 

“What about you, Mr Watson? Hm. Oh, yes. I horseshoe, that’s a good omen. You’ll be lucky in choosing your lifetime partner. Now, let’s move on with the class!”

So, that was Divination. When he told Greg and Sherlock how it went, they laughed. Well, Greg laughed. Sherlock rolled his eyes and told him he’s an idiot for choosing the subject in the first place, and then gave him an innocent, all-teeth smile. And then he had said ‘ouch’ because John flicked him in the ear. Karma. 

“Well, we better be off and start the homework,” Carl said back in resent, rousing John from his memories. John nodded, instinctively looking around the Great Hall to locate Greg or Sherlock, but too many people were leaving together. He gave up, knowing that if either wanted to find him, they would. Especially Sherlock. 

“What do you think about you being her pity target?” John asked Carl as they crossed the threshold of the Hall. 

“I don’t care,” the boy said. “I mean, it had to be someone. But I was a bit angry when she talked about Jim. It hit closer home than you’d think.”

“Poor guy. Is it bad?”

“Not much, but he and his sister argue a lot. She was in Slytherin, and made it to Head Girl. last year before graduating. She didn’t like Jim being sorted into Gryffindor.”

“That’s rough. What’s her name?”

“Janine. She always sent Jim messages via her cat. Last year it got a bit better, but it’s like she thinks of Jim as a traitor of the family for being in Gryffindor or something. She once sent him a really passive aggressive note, she signed it with a heart. Kinda creepy.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry for him. I mean, I also argue with Harry, she was making fun of me for being in Gryffindor, saying I’ll have to be a superhero from now on. Then she tried to make me her slave and all, but that’s just sibling bantering.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. I have three younger sisters,” Carl agreed, avoiding the invisible step on their way up. “I’m going to just come up with random stuff for the dream diary. Say that I saw a teacup with an umbrella and I’ll be annoyed I didn’t have it when it started raining or such.”

“That’s a good idea,” John laughed, thinking about what he could write about. Nowadays he spent a lot of time on his homework and didn’t remember any dream he had. “I could write about how a horseshoe fell on my head, I got concussed, and a beautiful person took care of me and bam! We fell in love, happy ending.”

“I’m starting to regret taking this subject on,” Carl sighed, rubbing his eyes. 

“On the other hand, I’m starting to enjoy it,” John shrugged, amused by all the ideas he had gotten that he could use for his dream diary. 

The evening continued peacefully, John forgetting about Sherlock and Greg. In turn, they apparently forgot about him. It wasn’t until half past eleven that he and Carl were done with their homework and decided to pack it up and go sleep. In the bathroom John changed into his pyjamas, awfully exhausted. His hair was greasy, but it was quite short to be of any notice. He’ll wash it tomorrow. 

Wishing Carl and the other boys good night, he plopped down on his four-poster bed and dug under the inviting, warm covers. The claws of dreams reached for him, dragging him deep under, his breaths becoming longer with each inhale and exhale. 

It wasn’t until the sudden feeling of having trouble to breath, the feeling of being trapped waking him up. Someone put a hand over his mouth, stifling his surprised and horrified screams. He jerked upward, the hand not moving but allowing him to sit up, chest heaving. He grabbed the offensive limb and pulled, mouthing a sleepy, if irritated ‘ _Sherlock?_ ’ into the warm skin at his lips. 

Face to face with his friend, he looked around and realised he was now in the Gryffindor Common Room. How did he get here? He clearly remembered treading up the stairwell to his dorm room with Carl. 

“Shh, you’ll wake everyone up,” Sherlock whispered, putting an index finger to his lips. John watched him, lingering there for a second before snapping his eyes to the silver irises. He pried Sherlock’s hand away. 

“What in the hell are you doing?” he hissed, throwing his legs over the couch’s edge. “How did I get here?”

“Clearly, I woke you up,” Sherlock said, huffing. He was still dressed in his robe, though without the tie. “I used Wingardium Leviosa on you. I couldn’t risk you screaming the whole House down at one in the morning.”

“That’s so thoughtful of you,” John snapped, running a hand through his hair. It felt disgusting, he really needed to wash it. “It’s one in the morning? Jesus, Sherlock! Even the fire is almost out! Didn’t you say you wanted to start on the Chamber of Secrets yesterday? You’re an hour late, mate.”

“Technicalities, John,” Sherlock waved him off irritably. As if _he_ had the right to be irritated. Did he even sleep? “I got slowed down by my Ancient Runes translation, the etymology of some words is _fascinating_. Anyway, I sneaked in and got you here so we can go investigate. I have a theory to prove right or wrong and you have to help me.”

“Yeah, fine. Whatever. I agreed to help,” John yawned into his fist, feeling more awake than ten seconds ago. “But I have to go and change. I’m not getting caught by Prefects in my pyjamas on a Friday morning.”

“Pfft, they won’t catch us,” Sherlock said, throwing a bundle of something soft at John. “I got your clothes. You’re predictable, John. Why wouldn’t you want to go in your pyjamas?”

“Because I have my dignity intact.”

“I see. Now, get dressed, we have to get going.”

“Sure. Uhm,” John said, looking at Sherlock pointedly. He currently kept his gaze fixed on John, hands behind his back, back straight. He didn’t get the memo. “Can you… Turn around?” 

“What for?”

“So that I can change in peace?”

“Please, there’s nothing I haven’t seen before on myself.”

“Sherlock! Personal boundaries, does that tell you anything?”

“Oh… Right,” he said, eyes widening momentarily and he turned around, his back facing John who quickly changed, throwing his pyjamas under the couch cushions. He made a mental note not to forget about them. 

“Alright, we can go,” John said, clapping Sherlock on the back to lead them outside of the tower. The Fat Lady complained about being woken up twice, telling them to come back after dawn should they change their minds and return to hide from Prefects. “Hold on - how did you get inside again? How did you know the password?”

Sherlock gave him a look. “Really, John. I’m a Ravenclaw.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I guessed it,” Sherlock said quickly, treading down the stairs carefully. 

“No-no, if you did you’d tell me how,” John stopped him, quirking a brow upwards. 

“Then you clearly underestimate my intellect. Now let’s go, we already lost enough time as it is!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a cliffhanger, but I procrastinated on this chapter until yesterday and speed-wrote it until now. But, I managed to stuff it with some interesting things when it comes to Divination, I think, yo. Though I feel a bit sad for Jim. But only a little, for now. Sherlock is a bit of an innocent lil' bean, but he knows when to turn around, heh. Though John has to explicitly state it. 
> 
> Action is coming, guys, don't worry. I shall write at least 100 words daily for both timelines. <3
> 
> Anyway, that's all for today - if you want more content, today I updated my other johnlock fic, Reichenbach Falls! Give it a shot if you're into more shenanigans and mysteries!
> 
> Next update is draco/harry timeline in '94 on the 6th. Hopefully a longer chapter too. 
> 
> Updated: 20.10. 2020  
> Word count: 2684
> 
> Thank you all for reading and I wish you a happy day/night wherever you are~
> 
> -Vee


	12. Skeeter Tweeter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: 1994, the week following the Goblet of Fire fiasco, and an interview with a wicked witch of the East

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! So, surprise suprise, I procrastinated again because I dreaded existence and school related responsibilities. BUT I MANAGED 4K WORDS TODAY FOR YOU! Hoever, not beta'd so feel free to point out typos or inaccuracies if you find any :) <3  
> Hope you enjoy, we move on. I really hope to squeeze out longer chapters next time.   
> Thanks for reading!

The following week after the Goblet of Fire revelation was the oddest in Harry’s life. What he hoped to be a school week where everyone would focus on the Slytherin champion ended up being split evenly between the two of them. Opinions differed greatly among the Houses, but the thing they had in common was that they all thought Harry indeed put his name in the damned Goblet. 

With each passing day, Harry felt like tearing his hair out from the frustration. 

Ron was still not speaking to him, but after Hermione pointed out that he’s jealous, it shed some light onto his reasoning, though Harry still hated it. True, he always wound up in the spotlight of one problem or another, but never willingly! Seriously, it’s like he’s some strange magnet that attracts trouble, similar to how Hermione easily attracts objects with the Summoning Charm (a spell Harry hasn’t gotten the hang of yet, which obtained him a good deal of homework from Professor Flitwick). Despicable, that’s what this was. He did cool down a little since then, the space giving him perspective on Ron’s mindset, but there was a bit of resentment present anyway. He’d gladly switch places for a bit of peace and calm. 

And then there were the Houses. Slytherins, naturally, hated his guts. Harry was widely unpopular among them ever since he helped Gryffindor beat them in Quidditch and other Hogwarts competitions. Their bashful actions and words were therefore even more pronounced and reinforced since the second Hogwarts champion was from their House. The Gryffindors stood by him, enthusiastic by the prospect of Harry kicking the Slytherins’ egos once again, but that brought him no comfort. Not at all. If anything, it made him even more nervous. The Ravenclaws, who usually got along with the Gryffindors nicely, turned their backs to them. Most of the students there stuck to Slytherin, and Harry let himself be heard that they didn’t agree with his way of wanting to constantly show off. This angered him greatly, but he didn’t have energy left to try to tell them otherwise. The Hufflepuffs, however, remained indifferent. During their Herbology lesson, a couple people told Harry that they were curious how he managed to get in ( _I didn’t, thank you very much!_ ), but that they were giving the benefit of the doubt. Some expressed Harry their well wishes ( _I suppose I’ll need them._ ), though they also asked curious questions about Blake. 

He was quite the mysterious champion, even more so than Krum. It didn’t help that he transferred from Ilvermorny in his final year, which brought many conspiracies to life. The funny thing was that before the sorting, no one had any idea that a student transferred to Hogwarts. Such gossip wasn’t relevant to the flow of the student body. But now? The whole of Slytherin adopted the new boy, putting him on a pedestal everywhere Harry went. 

So far, he didn’t have a strong opinion about Blake. That very night when they left the office together after his name was drawn, he was unable to process anything, and Blake asking who might want him dead hit a nerve. However, the day after when he sent a letter to Sirius and Buckbeak, they met again. Which was a bit awkward, but Blake telling him he believed him? The relief that washed over Harry was unexpected, and he felt a great deal of gratitude. A Slytherin, his fellow champion and rival, said that he believed Harry when he said he didn’t put his name in the Goblet of Fire. The memory was so surreal he had to ask Hermione if it really did happen. He was still a little suspicious of Blake (what if it was some greater scheme of the Slytherins? Although Hermione called him ridiculous for that, so…) - really, where did the world get to when champions of two Houses that hated each other actually trust each other? Okay, Harry wasn’t one-hundred percent clear on the trust part on his side yet, but… his gut feeling may have told him to let go of his prejudice. 

“I think it’s good we’ve got a Slytherin champion that transferred from America,” Hermione said thoughtfully as they walked to the dungeons for their Potion class with Snape. “Think about it: he didn’t know about the rivalry of the Houses, and probably doesn’t much even now. I met him a few times in the corridor.”

“Did you?” Harry said, distracted by the students passing them. A few grimaced at the sight of him, and he wished for nothing more than to move around in his Invisibility Cloak. 

“Yes, and he’s usually alone. He doesn’t seem like the social type, but I think he’s friends with Cedric Diggory. I’ve seen them together, especially outside on the grounds. Cho Chang hangs out with them occasionally too.”

Harry’s belly did a flip at the mention of Cho for an unknown reason, and he tried not to think about her. She was a fellow Seeker on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, and so far they got along well. But what did she think of him now? Did she side with the Slytherins too? Better not to think about it. 

But Harry stumbled upon Cedric and his cheery self as well the other day, albeit briefly. It was a short exchange, Cedric wishing Harry good luck, although he was one of those who thought Harry put himself in the tournament, but at least he was supportive. 

“Harry, are you even listening to me?” Hermione’s voice dragged him out of his reverie. Soon they’ll be near the class. 

“Hm? Sorry, I’m distracted.”

Hermione patted him on the arm, shooting him a lopsided grin. “I know. I asked whether you’d like help with the Summoning Charm. It’s not that difficult, you just need more practise and less distraction.”

“Talk about distraction, it’s kind of hard to think of anything else than the fact that half the school thinks I’m lying.”

“It will pass, it always does,” Hermione reassured him. “People always gossip, that’s not new.”

“I suppose,” Harry grunted, rounding the corner only to come into view of the Slytherins, with whom they were about to have Double Potions. Nowadays, the Slytherins took their hatefulness out on him even more, and today was no exception. 

The moment they arrived in front of the class, a familiar voice greeted them, as well as the sight of badges that all of the Slytherins wore. At first they were quite unassuming, but the closer they got, the more prevalent the writing on them became. They all bore the same message: _Support Blake Selcout, the FIRST and ONLY champion of Hogwarts!_

“Hello, _Potter_ ,” Malfoy said, grinning at him like the snake he was. “Like these? They sold out this morning. Look at what else they can do!” He tapped the badge with his forefinger and a new message came to display: _Potter stinks!_

“Very inventive of you,” Hermione commented, bemused by the laughter that Malfoy elicited from his peers. “I bet it took you a lot of time to come up with something so original.”

Somewhere inside, Harry longed for Hermione to repeat the slap she gifted Malfoy last year. Oh, that had the most impeccable delivery. Malfoy didn’t seem perturbed by her, instead he walked up to her, keeping his distance as he reached for a badge hidden in his pocket. 

“Want one, Granger?” He offered her the badge, but Hermione merely glared holes into him. “Kept one just for you. But don’t touch me, I wouldn’t want to catch germs from a Mudblood like you.”

Harry felt like enlightenment came over him. Pent-up anger flared through his veins, blinking once, twice, thrice, shrugging off his backpack. He was used to others calling him names, especially the Slytherins - but calling his friend a slur? Well, Malfoy had a storm incoming. Sooner than he knew it, Harry drew his wand. 

~

“Remember the technique of the spell, this is usually asked about on N.E.W.T.s. I should hope that most of you already know this,” McGonagall said, throwing the Seventh Years a stern glance. “And don’t forget about proper pronunciation of an incantation as well as precision in your wand movements. Yes, I’m talking to you, Miss Lively.”

Amanda Lively, a Hufflepuff girl whom Blake recognised as one of the few girls that asked for his autograph for some reason, hung her head low and muttered an agreement. 

Professor McGonagall continued, the rest of the year gulping collectively. “It’s your grade that’s at stake here. Transfiguration is not about being imprecise. If you go to your N.E.W.T.s thinking you’ll succeed by waving your wands around as if you’re experiencing apoplexy, then you’re incorrect in your assumptions.”

Blake couldn’t help not snorting at that remark. He sat on the far left side of the class, his desk partially obstructed by a golden cage in which a large raven sat perched, observing the current audience. 

The professor noticed Blake’s amusement, for she turned to him, lips quirking in the smallest hint of a smile. “Mr Selcout, I believe they told you the same at Ilvermorny, didn’t they?”

“Yep. I had a teacher who adhered people’s fingers to the wand and forced them to repeat the movements until they got it perfectly.” He felt a bump in his leg from Cedric, who sat next to him. 

“Don’t give her ideas,” he whispered, snickering into his parchment and notes. 

“Oh, did they?” McGonagall said, mildly amused. “I cannot say that I agree with their teaching techniques, but it does sound rather helpful. Now, let’s review our latest spell. Mr Selcout, if you please.”

Blake got up and walked up to McGonagall. He liked her. She was strict, but a very competent teacher. His aunt worked with her at some point, and said that she’s a lovely woman. She cares, but doesn’t show it in the usual way. Blake could see it for himself now. But what he appreciated the most was her subtle, completely British sense of humour. 

“Now, what one may be able to achieve is turn oneself into an animal,” McGonagall said, clasping her hands in front of her. 

Cedric raised his hand. “Are you going to teach us how to become animagi?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Diggory. The process to become an animagus is very long and difficult. Many things can go wrong, and you also have to register yourself with the Ministry.”

“What if we became one illegally?”

McGonagall fixed him a glare that had the rest of the class stirring, but not Cedric. He was genuinely curious and purely hypothetical with his query. “For your own good I hope you will not attempt such foolishness, Diggory. The repercussions from the Ministry if they found out would be far greater than you may think.”

“Just askin, Professor.”

“Good. Now, what is more acceptable is Transfiguring oneself into an animal. It requires a great deal of concentration, otherwise you may get stuck in a half-animal, half-human form, which is not pleasant for anyone involved, spectator or not.”

She turned to Blake, who stood next to her, back straight like a soldier’s. He blinked at her inquiringly and took a step back when she looked at him. “Should I magic myself into a cat?”

McGonagall’s mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing. Cedric snickered on his right, but it went unnoticed by the teacher. “No, we will start by reviewing simple human Transfiguration. This is something we went over last year, as you all should remember. Yes, Ackerley?”

Ackerley, whose head leaned into his propped up fist, snapped his eyes open. “Yes!”

“Well, then. Mr Selcout, please show us how you can change the colour of your hair.”

“Do blue!” someone shouted.

“No, yellow!” another person suggested. 

Professor shut them up with one glance. She cleared her throat and motioned Blake to carry on. He hummed, thinking of some interesting colour. Blue and yellow were mainstream. Green, well, that would be his House’s colour, but perhaps people would think he’s overdoing it. Hm, he could do red. Maybe it could be seen as solidarity with Harry Potter? That could help others gain some sympathy for the boy, since half the school was now apparently divided into camps over who supported who. Red it is. 

Blake focused on the colour, shutting his eyes closed. He had to pronounce it right and not embarrass himself. “Crinus Muto!” he said, saying it as clear as he could, and white light shone from the tip of his wand. When he looked up, people stared at him, grinning, some of them laughing. 

“Excellent, Selcout!” McGonagall praised him. She handed him a mirror so that he could check out his work. He grinned at his reflection - his black hair turned red as he’d intended, though it had a slightly more ginger effect than he’d desired. All was good otherwise. He looked at Cedric, who showed him two thumbs up. “That will be five points to Slytherin for good work.”

She wanted to go on, but at that moment a younger student opened the door of the class and stuck her head inside. “Professor McGonagall?” the blonde girl said. She had a dreamy look on her pale face. 

“What is it?”

“Mr Bagman asked for Blake Selcout. The champions are to meet with him right now. Someone mentioned photographs too.”

“Very well,” McGonagall said. She nodded to Blake and he went to fetch his bag, throwing his quill and parchment in haphazardly. “Selcout, I assume you’ll ask for homework from your peers?”

“Yes, professor,” Blake said, walking towards the girl who in the meantime stepped outside. He thought he heard someone calling his name faintly, but he was already out of the class, doors shut. 

The blonde girl waited for him, he guessed her to be a Third Year. Her eyes followed him, curious. “Hi,” he said, looking around. “So, where to?”

“I’ll show you,” she said, leading him to the enchanted stairs. After a moment of silence interrupted only by their echoing steps, she asked, “How does it feel to be a champion?”

Blake turned the question upside down in his mind. How _did_ it feel? “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. He yawned into his fist. “Tiring, probably. Everyone is too friendly all of a sudden. Or bashful. It’s fifty-fifty.”

“You’re funny.”

“Why?”

“Your accent,” the girl said, looking at him, her lips upturned and face bright. “You’re the student from Ilvermorny, right? I like your English.”

“Thank you, I like yours too,” he returned the compliment. He truly did like British English, though sometimes it was rather funny, some words and how people said them. They walked some more. “What’s your name?”

“Luna Lovegood,” the girl said, nodding curtly. She stopped in front of a vacated classroom. Turning to Blake, she rocked on the balls of her feet. “I like that we have a Slytherin champion. And a Gryffindor one. Though I’m sorry for Harry. People give him a hard time when he didn’t do it.”

“I’m glad you’re of the same opinion,” Blake said to her, relieved that not everyone turned against the younger boy. Honestly, his House was pretty cruel in this. 

“I am. And House Elves confirmed it for me, so no more evidence is needed. You should probably go inside.”

“Thanks, Luna.” He bowed to her, making her smile wider. “I shall face my fears now.”

“Bye!”

Smiling, Blake pushed the door open to see Krum and Fleur already waiting inside, as well as Ludo Bagman and a witch in magenta robes. Bagman noticed Blake and waved him to come closer. 

“Ah! Champion number three is here, I see,” he said, his smile baring his teeth. Blake had a weird feeling whenever he was around Bagman. “Come in, Blake. The other judges will be here shortly, as well as Harry. We will have the wand weighing ceremony to check your wands are properly functional and then we’ll have Rita talk to you.”

He pointed at the witch next to him, and Blake resisted the urge to frown. His aunt would hate her outfit, there was no doubt. Jeweled spectacles, magenta robes, obnoxiously green crocodile-skin handbag and crimson-painted fingernails? Lord have mercy should she ever come face-to-face with his auntie. She scanned Blake head to toes. 

“And what exactly are we going to talk about with Miss Skeeter?” Blake asked, cocking an eyebrow. Something about the woman and how she looked at him rubbed him the wrong way. 

“Oh, just an interview,” she said. “The _Daily Prophet_ and its readers will _love_ to hear about the champions and their feelings about the Tournament. Even better that Hogwarts has two, one Slytherin and one Gryffindor. I wonder if I could get a word with Blake before the judges arrive?”

“Why not?” Bagman patted Blake on the back, shoving him in Rita’s direction. “You don’t mind, do you, Blake?”

“Well….”

“Excellent,” Rita Skeeter purred, grabbing the hem of Blake’s robes as she dragged him out of the classroom, opening a door close by. “The noise out there always interrupts my train of thought. Ooh, this is cosy!”

She pulled Blake into a broom cupboard, the space claustrophobically small and packed. Oh no, this wasn’t going to end up good. It was dark, and immediately Blake took out his wand and whispered _Lumos_. 

“Oh, perfect!” Rita smirked, digging into her handbag easily. “Would you mind if I used a Quick-Quotes Quill?”

Before Blake could protest, she sat him down on a box, his heart pounding. He didn’t feel one bit comfortable in the tight space. He loosened his tie, gulping air into his lungs that suddenly felt as though someone squeezed them. 

He barely noticed the bright green Quill and parchment Rita Skeeter laid out on a crate between them. 

Blake shut his eyes closed, imagining he’s out on a spacious beach somewhere on the South of England or the East Coast near the ocean, breeze caressing his cheeks and hair… 

“So, Blake Selcout,” Skeeter said, leaning in closer. Blake pressed his back to the wall. _Space, I need space_. His eyes jumped from one tangible item in the cupboard to the next, until his gaze landed on the parchment. He could easily read upside down handwriting. Rita Skeeter cast him a wide smile, baring her three golden teeth. _Jesus Christ I didn't sign up for this_. He could see the crap her Quill wrote on the paper, some such things about the reporter being amazing and full of herself. 

“What made you decide to enter the Triwizard Tournament?” 

Blake blinked. “Uhm…” Despite his speechlessness, the Quill dashed across the parchment, writing utter nonsense about him. “A friend convinced me. I didn’t want to, initially…. Ugh, I didn’t… Didn’t think I’d be one of the champions.”

His breathing was ragged now. 

“Interesting, was it peer pressure? You’re from Ilvermorny, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think it could be explained that you wanted to belong? After all, transferring in your last academic year must be tough. Finding friends even more so, I imagine.”

“Not - not really. I have a good friend Cedric. He helps me get around.”

“I’m sure he is. How do you like it at Hogwarts? How do you view yourself being the Slytherin champion, now having to face the rival House Gryffindor?”

Blake felt hot, sweat precipitating at the edge of his hairline. He mustered up all his strength to answer Rita Skeeter’s pointless questions. “I don’t care about that. Harry is innocent in this. He’s fourteen, he would never be able to cheat the Goblet.”

“I see. How do your parents feel about you being in the Tournament?” Skeeter asked briskly, her nails clicking on the wooden crate’s surface. 

“I'm an orphan,” Blake said, thinking of his aunt. “My mom’s sister took care of me, still is.”

“Is she worried you could die in the tournament?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t gotten a letter back yet. She’s working a lot, that’s understandable.”

“Would you say you want to prove yourself to your aunt and your deceased parents like this? Do you think you subconsciously joined because you feel neglected by your aunt’s care? I assume Harry has a similar drive, wouldn’t you say?” Her quill skated across the page furiously, noting this and that, but with Blake’s anxiety on the rise, his vision couldn’t focus anymore. But her little speech about his parents, his lovely aunt that could kick her ass for this, and Harry - that made him angry.

“Don’t _you_ think that you’re being inappropriate?” Blake said, gritting his teeth. It was too much. The closed, tiny space, the air was thick in his lungs and throat. Rita Skeeter’s presence served as katalyst all the more. Who let her in? “You know what? This is ridiculous. Why would anyone think Harry Potter joined the tournament? He’s fourteen! He’s been through a lot already!”

And with that, he burst out of the cupboard, chest heaving. He was far enough from the people in the classroom not to be noticed, though Fleur did get a whiff of him. He focused on calming himself, trying to shake off the feeling of the walls closing in on him. Distantly, he realised that Bagman was talking to Harry. His legs led him themselves towards him, and he was barely mentally there when he asked, “Sorry, can I have a word with Harry for a moment?”

He practically dragged him outside the class. The judges haven’t arrived yet. Out in the corridor, Blake slumped against a wall and slid down on the cold floor to ground himself. 

“Blake? What’s going on?” he heard Harry say. He flailed his hand in the air, taking deep breaths. 

“Just… Merlin’s pants, I hate cupboards.” A snort made him look up. Blake arched an eyebrow, finally feeling better. “What? There’s this wicked reporter from the _Daily Prophet_ and she dragged me in. She’s horrible, something is up.”

“Great, as if I need more publicity,” Harry sighed, looking as uncomfortable as Blake had felt the whole time in the cupboard. 

“She has a Quill that writes utter nonsense,” Blake told him, resting his head on the wall. He regretted ever speaking in that woman’s presence. “Be careful what you tell her.”

“Okay… Thanks, I guess. Are you alright?”

“Yep. Claustrophobia. She basically shoved me in there, in a dark cupboard. I hate it. I always panic in tight spaces, and this was exactly that.”

“Oh… I guess I could say I’m used to it,” Harry shrugged, a lopsided grin twisting his lips. Blake jerked his chin up in silent query. “Uhm… That’s a long story.”

“If you say so. Should we get back inside?”

“I suppose,” Harry said, offering Blake a hand.

~

“That wicked witch of the East,” Blake muttered in disbelief as he read through a ‘report’ on the Triwizard Tournament published by Rita Skeeter. The Ministry owl delivered a print of the _Daily Prophet_ to Cedric since he was subscribed to it, and Blake stole it to avoid talking to other people around them. “She made Potter into a crybaby. And then there’s me - oh that’s _rich_. Listen to this: _‘Poor Blake Selcout came to Hogwarts alone, his aunt neglectful even after she swore to take care of him after his parent’s death. Blake hopes to make his parents proud, and dignify the Slytherin House in the process despite transferring from Ilvermorny. But will the new, lost boy be the making or breaking of a House that’s putting up with prejudice? Will it be an American student who brings peace to Hogwarts Houses?’_ What is wrong with her?”

“Yeah, that’s Skeeter alright,” Cedric conceded, digging into his breakfast bowl. “She always does this. I’m not surprised.”

“Well I’m _furious_. To talk about my aunt like that? Oh no. And where’s her interview with Fleur and Krum? Oh that’s neat - she just mentioned them at the end of the article! How is this honest journalism?”

“It isn’t,” Cedric said with his mouth full. He wiped it with the back of his hand, shrugging. “I wouldn’t pay it attention. She does it to get money, and controversies do that.”

“This is horrible,” Blake groaned into the paper. “Oh my - _this_? _‘On account of both Hogwarts boys, it is apparent that the Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry is still going strong. Each boy longs to bring his House glory, and the Tournament seems to be the perfect opportunity to resolve the centuries-long question: which House is better?’_ Are you kidding me? What’s wrong with you people and this rivalry?”

“Yeah, lots of people overdo it,” Cedric agreed, pushing his bowl aside. He gulped down the rest of his pumpkin juice and rose to his feet. Blake mirrored him; he barely touched his breakfast since he got a hold of the paper. It needed burning. “Want to go to the Owlery? I need to send my mum a letter. We could go to Hogsmeade later.”

Blake hummed in response, his mind drifting off. This was a punch in the gut. He had to write to his aunt immediately. At least the wicked Skeeter woman didn’t have her name - fortunately, her last name differed from Blake’s. And the _rivalry_ lies. How could anyone sensible read this, less so even believe it? Yes, it was pretty much there, but as far as he knew, he and Harry were on agreeable terms. Did this jeopardize it? If he could, he wanted to help Harry get out of this unharmed. By the look of things, he was among few people who sympathized with him and his struggle. 

He needed to talk to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we go. Harry and Blake had a bit of a bonding time, and Blake met Luna! We'll be seeing more of her for sure. Next time I'm hoping to get back to Draco fully, too. And I may go back and do an edit where he told the SLytherins his scheme, because it really is kinda OOC as was ponted out for me and looking back, I agree, so I may go back in time and amend this little bit! :3
> 
> Next chapter is going to be back in 1883 on the 20th November, continuing Sherlock and John's investigation~
> 
> See you in two weeks! 
> 
> Updated: 6.11. 2020  
> Word count: 4291  
> My humble tumblr: [majesticnerdyvee](https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/) I decided to draw cartoonish doodles for this fic for each 100 hits we gain - I do this purely for myself as a form of exercise to learn how to doodle simple sketches, I will do it with any imaginary milestone I cross :) for now I use hits on my fics :D   
> My other fic: [Reichenbach Falls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26233390/chapters/63849742)
> 
> Thank you for reading and I wish you a nice day/night wherever you are~
> 
> -Vee


	13. Rooms That Come and Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: 1983, autumn, wee hours of the morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi people! I am horrible and procrastinated on this again. So barely 2k words and another mini cliffhanger. But I delivered, so there's that!  
> HEADS UP: I didn't have time to beta read this, I'm sorry. I plan to, however, go back and edit over Christmas break next month or so; feel free to nitpick or britpick!  
> Thank you all for reading, giving kudos, all this! <3  
> Hopefully next time I will finally write a giant chapter to get a move on in the years.   
> Enjoy!

Sherlock led the way in practiced strides, walking on tiptoes as he and John descended to the ground floor of the Hogwarts castle. Darkness embalmed them like a blanket, the only source of light being torches on the walls that offered faint red and orange illumination to their surroundings. Both Sherlock and John were dressed in their trousers and woolly sweaters; John’s was beige and Sherlock’s dark blue. 

“Where exactly do you plan to drag me tonight?” John whispered, keeping close to Sherlock. Save for the wind wheezing through thin crevices between stones and window panes, their careful footsteps, and the crackling of fire, the castle was silent. 

Sherlock shot him a passing look before turning to the left, suppressing a shudder when a lisp of breeze sneaked under his jumper. “You’ll see, but quiet now. Snape may be awake --”

“Snape?!” John croaked, his almost-explanation turning into muffled tones when Sherlock’s hand shot up to cover his mouth. Sherlock crowded them into a dark corner, John glaring unspoken spells at him. He muffled another sound, but Sherlock shook his head, instead looking over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. 

“Shh,” he said, putting a finger to his own lips in an obvious gesture. John rolled his eyes, arms crossed across his chest as he slumped against the two walls. “He’s on the lookout for intruders.”

John mouthed something Sherlock thought meant ‘ _Obviously_ ’ accompanied by yet another roll of his marine blue eyes, but refrained from attempting to speak further. Sherlock lifted his hand, wiping the precipitation that formed there from John’s breath on his trousers. He moved to step under an arch leading deeper into the cold corridor, John next to him. 

“We’re going into the dungeons,” he murmured, resigned and not asking. 

“Yes,” Sherlock inhaled, keeping his voice low. Since John wouldn’t stay quiet until he got answers, best reply to him.

“Where Snape is stalking the shadows like a cat to catch thieves.”

“Yes, it would seem so.”

“Thieves that continue stealing from the supply closet for Potions.”

“Yes, but that’s not what interests me at the moment.”

“And we’re going to the dungeons despite the fact that last year we got caught and sent to detention.”

“Well, we better not get caught this year then, shall we?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, giving John a toothy smile. He probably didn’t see it in the dark, but the little friendly shove Sherlock got from him told him he agreed. The further they progressed, the darker it got.

“We’re mad,” John huffed, amused. The silhouette of his head tilted; they passed a torch, thankfully not stumbling upon anyone. Sherlock’s ears pricked at strange sounds that may have given away a third party nearby, but everything was silent. And then he felt electrifying waves rise goosebumps on his skin under the warm jumper, John’s fingers wounding around his arm. His breath caught in his chest, and his chin jerked to the left where his friend walked with him. John staggered them inside a half-open cupboard nearby.

Sherlock heard it too. Footsteps. Stealthy, yet loud enough to alert them that somebody else was coming. The boys held their breaths, dread and anticipation mixing, freezing them to their spots. John pressed them closer to the wall, body going rigid as the person of Severus Snape flowed past, his robes flouncing in a dramatic fashion even in the dark of the night. What was even more visible was the grase in his hair, easily reflecting the light of the fire. 

When Sherlock made to shift his position, Snape came to a halt, his profile turning to the left as he looked over his shoulder. John’s grasp on his arm tightened, lips pressed tightly in a white line. Fortunately, Snape’s attention turned elsewhere and he soon disappeared, the steps of his shoes dissipating into the late hours. Only the dripping of leaking pipes filled the air.

“Jesus Christ,” John let out lightly, ducking his head. Sherlock tugged at his sleeve to delve further into the dungeons. “Why are we going into the ruddy dungeons in the first place?”

“I have a theory,” Sherlock said, not letting go of where his fingers hooked around John’s sleeve. “I think the passage is clear for now, but let’s not speak loudly.”

“If we get caught and McGonagall is there to ground us, I’ll whack you with a pillow,” John said, shaking his head. Sherlock hummed, unperturbed by the possibility that their Transfiguration teacher may grant them a handful of detentions. Where was the fun in obeying rules? Mycroft followed them and look where it got him. He became boring, distant, a sodding _Ministry of Magic_ worker. ‘Worker’ - well, he’ll actually move up from a mere pawn of a graduate into some higher positions, no doubt about that. Sometimes, Sherlock missed his older brother in ways he couldn’t describe, and neither would admit to. It’s been a long time since they had a lighthearted moment. 

Enough of that now. 

“Do you remember the first time we sneaked out here?” Sherlock asked, corners of his mouth tilting up as John heaved a sigh. He stopped near a mouldy, wet wall. John murmured _Lumos_ so that they could see what they were dealing with. “Yes, so. This room is, as you surely remember, an illusion.”

“Such a fond memory when I peeped in a hole in the floor,” John deadpanned grumpily, looking uneasy about the whole thing. Too bad, Sherlock offered no refunds on their adventures. “What about it? If you think we’re going down there, then no. We’re not.”

“But John --”

“No, Sherlock,” John frowned, rubbing his eyes. “Do you realise how dangerous that can be? I don’t want us to end up falling head first into some bottomless pit!”

“Oh please, those are a myth. Everyone knows it’s desert worms that consume you and throw you up in another place entirely.”

“Because that’s supposed to soothe me. No, really, Sherlock. Is this your theory? That the Chamber of Secrets is under the castle?”

Sherlock grunted unhappily, glaring at John and his mighty obtuseness. “Who do you think I am? A muggle magician performing street tricks?”

“I see you pay attention at your Muggle Studies classes,” John commented, exhaling through his nose in place of his usual laugh. Sherlock stared at him. “Anyway. Care to explain yourself, Mr Genius Ravenclaw?”

Sherlock cracked his knuckles, then steepled cold fingers under his chin as he nodded at the wall. He listened for a while in case a Prefect or Snape came back, but nothing roused his suspicion. “First, the illusion in the floor led to a cave of sorts. That much was obvious, and you saw a platform underneath, which means it must’ve been used at some point in Hogwarts history. The question is where and what it leads to.”

“Doom, death, pain,” John suggested, counting on his fingers. “To hell or purgatory, you never know.”

“Very funny, John. Maybe I find it funny there, too.”

“Oi! I have the right to be snarky, it’s too early for me to be up.”

“No matter, you’ll catch up in History of Magic class,” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “My point is -- what if Salazar Slytherin hid the Chamber in his part of the castle? That would make the most sense. Direct entrance and exit, inconspicuous to the other founders and teachers and students alike that were to come. Except his heirs.”

“Or not,” John shrugged, rubbing his arms to get his blood circulating. Sherlock frowned. 

“Why not? It’s logical.”

“What if he was paranoid enough to foresee this thought process?” John continued, scratching the side of his neck. Sherlock bit his lip, listening intently. “You know… From what we discovered so far, Slytherin kept everything a secret. The founders and others after them swept through the castle and found nothing. Wouldn’t they always start in the dungeons? Wouldn’t Slytherin, then, do the exact opposite? Hide the Chamber in a completely different place?”

Sherlock tipped his head, considering it. Hm. Yes, that was also possible, of course. “The question remains, though,” he said. “Where? Would he bother to enchant it somewhere else? That’s what I want to look at, John. Just a better peek under the illusion. I don’t have a rope with me yet, so I can’t descend tonight, but next time --”

John pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned sideways against the wall. Sherlock’s eyes widened, darting forwards to catch John from falling through the veil of magic, but to both of their surprises, he didn’t tip over. The wall stayed firm. Sherlock stared at the offensive stones, stabbing an accusatory finger at them. Solid rocks. 

“That’s impossible!” Sherlock hissed, jumping all over the wall to try and find an entrance, however thin or small. John took a step back, his wand effectively illuminating the narrow corridor. “I memorised this area, it was supposed to be right _here_.”

“Are you sure?” John asked softly, knocking on the stone as well. No signs of it disappearing or changing into a fizzy, translucent spell. “The dungeons are pretty confusing to me.”

“That’s because you have an awful sense of orientation in closed spaces,” Sherlock bit back, tugging at his curls in frustration. He turned to John, who watched him with a poker face, bemused by Sherlock’s little strop. “John, I didn’t make a mistake. I _know_ it was here. This precise place!”

“Maybe it appears only on special occasions?” John offered, shoulders lifting. “I don’t know! You’re the smart guy here, Sherlock. I have no idea how this Hogwarts works!”

Sherlock groaned, kicking the hard stones. He stubbed his toe, and began hopping awkwardly in one place, almost falling over if it weren’t for John who caught him under his armpits. They didn’t have much time to recover, however, for a sharp bark of ‘ _Who’s there?_ ’ startled them, the boys staggering backwards. 

“ _Nox_ ,” John whispered, his wand losing it’s light. He grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, his skin drastically more warm against the Ravenclaw’s. He sounded panicked when footsteps echoed louder by the second in their direction. “Sherlock -- where do we go?”

Sherlock bit his lower lip again, his eyes adjusting to the darkness that covered them anew. He and John walked backwards until they hit another wall…. or didn’t. What should have been a dead end turned out to be a veil of its own, if misplaced, and completely different at the same time. 

John and Sherlock gasped, glad to be shielded from Snape who was coming for their hides like a fury. Now, however, they were shielded from his wrath. But where exactly had they found themselves? Sherlock whipped his head around, inspecting their hideout. Similarly to the previous, now absent, illusion room, this one had an innate source of lightning as though ever present in the air. 

The biggest difference was that this illusion room wasn’t empty -- actually, numerous things cluttered it top to bottom. At first, Sherlock thought it to be a regular storage room, but after sighting a giant, majestic painting at the far back of the room. It was a live painting, a woman standing in its centre. She had long black hair pooling at her feet, her tall body was clothed in a beautiful blue robe, a silver diadem at the crown of her head. In her arms she was holding a book of spells, her intelligent, dark gaze already scanning John and Sherlock. Her posture generated intimidation, but Sherlock registered only curiousness. 

“Who is that?” John whispered, eyes glued on the portrait. The pale woman’s lips curled up, her chin lifting as she regarded them both with a knowing look. Sherlock saw her every day in the Ravenclaw Tower. 

“That’s my patron, you could say,” he told John, who let go of his wrist now. “John, meet Rowena Ravenclaw.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading again, and I'll see you on the 6th of December with Harry, Draco, and Blake~  
> Also, kinda weird how Slytherin put the entrance in a girl's bathroom, innit? Maybe it was a boy's bathroom before, who knows, I sure as hell didn't redecorate. Kinda ground for an innuendo in there somewhere, too..
> 
> Updated: 20.11. 2020  
> Word count: 1974
> 
> Thank you, and I wish you all a happy day/night, wherever you are~  
> Take care,
> 
> -Vee


	14. Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: 1994

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I probably should stop making promises, LOL, I just hit block after block for this fic. It's a short one. I planned originally for this to onvolve the First Task of the Tournament as well, but hm, I failed! Sorry guys. I'm a bit more focused on Reichenbach Falls, plus I joined a fic exchange this year, so it's a bit hectic, with school too. But anyway, I squeezed something short out.   
> I'll see you on the twentieth

Blake sat behind a table at the library for hours now. There was no real reason behind it other than wanting a sliver of peace for himself. He’d finished all his homework yesterday, and had no desire to overthink his essays at the moment, just get lost in some trivial books and maybe brush up on his knowledge of the History of Hogwarts. There was a book he sighted weeks ago about the four founders that he hasn’t had the chance to check out yet and it intrigued him.

Currently he was reading through an article from the 1500s about a new rule that passed in Hogwarts: apparently, having hedgehogs as familiar had become prohibited, the reason being that they poked students and other animals too much if threatened or spooked. Huh, curious. He flipped through a couple pages, stumbling upon another article talking about animagi and the registration process. One particular animagus pulled pranks on an unsuspecting muggle woman -- actually, he had a twin who helped him bamboozle the person. One of the culprits had transformed into a dog (an Irish wolfhound) and the other walked him by her house every morning. As they walked by on their way back, the second brother transformed into a dog of smaller breed (unknown) and this continued on until the Ministry of Magic caught up and made them register. 

Blake’s quiet snickering behind the pile of books was interrupted by a tactful cough. He paid it no attention at first, lost deep into the gossip of the previous centuries, but a second, more insistent cough made him look up. Harry stood next to him, as if unsure whether he was allowed to. 

“Oh, hi,” Blake said, lifting both eyebrows in surprise. He hasn’t had time to go find Harry on his own among his studying duties, but it seems like he manifested him. Harry hovered at the side of the table, one hand clutching the strap of his backpack. “Uhm, want to sit down? I actually wanted to talk to you.”

“What for?” Harry asked, taking a seat next to him. 

“About the _Daily Prophet_ article from that wicked Skeeter woman,” Blake said distastefully, his nose wrinkling at the memory of that tiny closet. Eugh. “Listen -- about the House rivalry, I don’t do that. I don’t want to do that. I think it’s ridiculous, and as I said, I do believe you. That you didn’t put your name in. And I don’t want us to go against each other like she makes it out to be.”

“Oh. Uhm, yeah, she’s terrible,” Harry said, sighing into the table. “I don’t want to think about it now. Look -- there’s something important I need to tell you.”

“Okay….?” Blake drew out, not knowing what to expect. Harry looked around, checking whether anyone else was in earshot. 

“Dragons,” Harry whispered. “They’re the first task.”

The fact straightened Blake’s spine and he leaned closer to Harry. “What? Are you sure? How do you know?”

“That’s…. Doesn’t matter. But Krum and Fleur know it already, too.”

“Wait, are you serious?”

“Do I look like I’d come up with dragons myself?” Harry frowned, running a hand through his black hair. “I’m not lying, Blake. It’s dragons. Four of them, one for each of us.”

“Al….right,” Blake said slowly, processing what he’d just been told. _Dragons? Seriously? And people are supposed to survive this tournament? Friendly competition my shoes! How is this supposed to make the schools strengthen their bonds? Do they do it at the funerals of the deceased champions? WOW. And they say the Americans are crazy._ Blake squinted at the ceiling, heaving a deep sigh. “Why? Why us?”

“I wish I knew,” Harry mumbled, suddenly rising to his feet. “That’s all, I just…. wanted all four of us to know what we’re dealing with. It wouldn’t be fair if you were the only one clueless about the dragons.”

“I appreciate it,” Blake told him, hoping to convey all the honesty he felt in the short statement. “I really do. Merlin’s pants, I don’t know what I’d do if I were to walk in there and only then discovering that I’m about to face a flesh and bone _dragon_.”

Harry huffed a hollow laugh, ducking his head to look at his shoes. “Yeah, same. We’re not supposed to know or get help from the teachers, but since Maxime and Karkaroff don’t care about playing clear….”

“Yeah, I know. This whole Tournament is a circus, and we’re the clowns.”

Harry chuckled at that, this being the second-or-so time Blake has seen him unwind a little. He’d ask how he felt, but if the answer wasn’t obvious by the way he announced the task and dragons, then Blake would’ve been blind and deaf. Goodness, he’s fourteen and has to face a beast this dangerous? 

“I’ll…. go,” Harry said, pointing a thumb behind him somewhere towards the exit. “And thanks for the _Prophet_ talk. You trust me more than half of the castle, and you barely know me.”

“It’s _obvious_ you’re the innocent party in this,” Blake shrugged, feeling a little disdainful. He’d overheard a number of students gossip about Harry and his ‘show-off syndrome’ or whatever they’d called it. Even the newspaper let that wretched woman of a journalist publish that ridiculous article which she so awfully centered around Harry and Blake, making them into rivals, a dumbass, and a crybaby. How could anyone take it seriously? Even Blake’s owl Belgravia could write more believable prints. “Honestly. Listen…. If you need to talk, feel free to creep on me in the library.”

The boy seemed surprised by the offer, if not taken aback. Uhm…. Too much? It’s what Blake’s aunt told him works on people. Give them a shoulder to cry on? Okay, crying may not be suitable here, but still. Having someone to talk to helps, he knew as much. 

“Alright,” was all Harry said before bidding him a farewell and disappearing among the surrounding bookshelves. It was then that slight panic started to overtake Blake. 

_DRAGONS. REAL DRAGONS. I’M GOING TO KILL CEDRIC FOR TALKING ME INTO THIS._

~

Draco pricked his ears at the whispers between Potter and Blake, hiding behind a nearby bookshelf. So dragons were to be on the first task? Interesting. Four of them, to be exact. All champions knew now, and of course the Durmstrangs and Beauxbatons were going to cheat in a way. He wouldn’t mind Potter not knowing, he always seems to find a way even in the most dire of situations. 

Hm. This would explain Karkaroff having Krum close to him these past few days, certainly telling him about certain spells that Draco had overheard in passing. Maybe if he managed to gather more information, he could pass it to Blake too. That’d earn him his trust, foregoing his plan. Good, good, that sounded plausible. It’s important to get him to trust Draco, and then he can inquire about Potter. Blake was awfully gullible, and Potter seems to be softening up to him. 

Making up his mind, Draco waited until the two finished talking. Then in a flurry of movement, Blake started to shut the books he had opened on the table, hurrying to put them wherever he got them from. 

“Hey Blake,” Draco said suavely, watching him collect tomes and newspaper articles five centuries old. Did seriously anyone read that? “Need some help?”

“No, I got it, thanks,” Blake said, using his wand to enchant the books to go their way. He looked up from the table at Draco, frowning slightly. “Draco, right?”

“Yep. How are you? Any news about the task?” he asked, feigning ignorance. 

“Uh, sort of. I have to rush and find someone, though. And then I have to start researching… I probably shouldn’t talk about it, sorry.”

“No problem, but if you need anything, I’ll be happy to help!”

Draco gave Blake a smile and let him rush out of the library. In his wake, he pondered what he may do in order to help the Slytherin champion. Hm. Four dragons, but what breeds? There were numerous possibilities of what they got, but of course it would be a ‘secret’ until the day of the task. Fortunately, Draco had a good source of where to get the necessary information: his father. Surely he’ll tell him, he has connections at the Ministry that will be willing to share this. 

Yes, that’s an easy way to go about it. Draco stalked out of the library, making his way downstairs to the dungeons. He needed to write a letter. Crab and Goyle were who knows where, so he had time for himself. While at it, he may write a separate letter to his mother, see how she’s doing and whether there’s anything new that piqued her interest. 

~

Blake was in a frenzy, lightly said. In other words, he spent most of his waking hours in the library researching dragons of all shapes and sizes. He was up to _here_ with it. Unbelievable. Cedric, abhorrently enough, seemed excited by the prospect. A little. Of course, he was concerned, and the two of them tried to come up with spells that could work well enough against the creatures _but none of it had that much value since they didn’t know what breed Blake would face_. 

The bags under his eyes were witnesses to Blake’s workaholic diligence to get as much done as possible. But that proved to be rather difficult and he couldn’t get help from any teachers -- that was against the rules, despite Fleur and Krum apparently getting help from their headmasters. He can do better than that. He _will_ do better than that. He’s no amateur when it comes to spells, obviously, but starting off with dragons is a bit too ambitious even for him. 

If there at least weren’t that many breeds and types of the foul creatures! But no, there had to be at least a hundred of them! Where did they import them from? Perhaps Romania? That was a country known for its sanctuaries, and it’s the closest. That still didn’t narrow it down to what Blake would like. 

He huffed, shutting a book about Asian dragons. Those seem too exotic, but who knows anymore? Not him, that’s for sure. This is frustrating. Blake rubbed at his eyes, willing himself to calm down. He wouldn’t have to face the task for another few _hours_ , but the deadline was drawing closer. Much closer. Damnit, he lost so much time sleeping when he could’ve absorbed facts about what allergies the Southafrican Yellowtail had!

A tap on his shoulder startled him, his spine straightening. “What? Oh, it’s you Draco. Sorry, I got lost in my head.”

Draco shrugged, stepping aside so that he could peer into the books. His eyebrows hitched up and Blake didn’t care whether he deduced that the task was about dragons or not. He was too tired for that. Draco placed a folded piece of parchment on the wood, crossing his arms across his chest inconspicuously. He glanced at the bookshelves behind Blake, nonchalantly lifting his eyebrows.

“I thought I’d share a rumour with you,” Draco said quietly, finally looking at Blake, who frowned. 

“If it’s about Harry or some unimportant gossip --”

“No, just a rumour I heard in the corridors,” Draco repeated more insistently, nodding at the tiny parchment. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers and shrugged, shooting Blake a lopsided grin. “Just something that a champion may be interested in. Nothing dire or nasty about Potter, don’t worry. Ta, and good luck on the first task tomorrow!”

Draco left, and Blake snatched the parchment, unfolding it in the shadows of the library. His jaw dropped, andhe darted out of his seat to find the younger Slytherin, but Draco was long gone. He, presumably, gave him the names of the four dragons, one of which he’ll face tomorrow. 

_Hungarian Horntail Chinese Fireball Common Welsh Green Swedish Shortsnout_

Where -- _how_ did he know? And was this for real? Considering that in general the Slytherins rooted for him, this couldn’t be fake. They don’t want him to fail, that much he gathered from their constant taunts of the Gryffindors and their childish rivalry. This couldn’t not be true. He hoped. Because if Draco handed him the four names of the dragons, then that narrowed his research considerably. 

He had thirty-six hours until the task. If he gets Cedric freed of his Head Boy duties, then they can come up with four strategies. Good, the plan’s decided then. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated: 6.12. 2020  
> Word count: 2096
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you all have a nice day/night wherever you are~  
> Take care
> 
> -Vee

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thanks for reading! I'll try to update regularly, but my studies may say otherwise... so I'll do my best :)  
> If you liked it, I'm glad, hopefully I'm doing a good enough job portraying our favourite characters.  
> Next chapter coming out soon, hopefully.  
> I'll see you all later~


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